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JOHN  HENRY  NASH  LIBRARY 

^  SAN  FRANCISCO  <8> 

PRESENTED  TO  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

ROBERT  GORDON  SPROUL.  PRESIDENT. 
<»    BY"  <«> 

Mr.andMrs.MILTON  S.RAY 
CECILY,  VIRGINIA  AND  ROSALYN  RAY 

AND  THE 

RAY  OIL  BURNER  ODMPANY 

SAN  FRANCISCO 
NEVTYORK. 


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Book  Lovers*  Verse 


9192^ 


BOOK  LOVERS'  VERSE 


Being  Songs  of  Books  and  Bookmen  Compiled 
from  English  and  American  Authors 

By  HOWARD  S.  RUDDY 


Knowing  I  heed  my  books,  he  furnished  me 
With  volumes  that  I  prize  abote  my  Dukedom 
The  Tempest 


INDIANAPOUS 
THE  BOWEN. MERRILL  CO, 


COPTEIGHT  1899 
BY 

THE  BOWEN-MEERILL  CO. 


TO 
ME.  SAMUEL  D.   LEB 


Introduction 

While  the  love  of  books  has  been  ex- 
pressed with  some  degree  of  generality  by 
the  bookmen  of  mediaeval  and  of  modem 
times,  in  learned  treatise  and  in  pleasing 
meter,  when  one  undertakes  an  inquiry  into 
the  subject,  the  poverty  of  available  material 
seems  out  of  proportion  to  the  inspiration 
which  the  subject  might  have  been  expected 
to  possess.  Perhaps  it  should  not  be  as- 
sumed that  the  poets  are  not  book-lovers 
themselves,  or  that,  being  book-lovers,  they 
are  unable  to  gratify  a  taste  for  the  pos- 
session of  books  because  they  are  poets; 
but  rather  that  their  muse  the  more  readily 
responds  to  the  seductions  of  a  pair  of  blue 
eyes,  or  a  tress  of  golden  hair,  or  even  the 
fleeting  glimpse  of  an  arched  instep,  in- 
spirations that  are  illusive  and  transitory 
when  measured  against  the  steadfastness  of 
good  books, 

"...    the  best  of  friends, 
That  can  not  be  estranged  or  take  offensa 
Howe'er  neglected,  but  return  at  will 
With  the  old  friendship," 

Be  that  as  it  may,  careful  research  dis- 
closes only  the    apparent  indifference  in 

vii 


Introduction 


which  some  of  the  bards  of  first  estate  have 
held  their  libraries ;  for  it  is  a  safe  conclu- 
sion that  the  true  bibliophile  would  not 
withhold  his  meed  of  praise  from  these  rep- 
resentatives of  the  great  intellects  of  all 
ages. 

It  is  not  possible,  perhaps,  to  ascertain 
just  when  the  poets  began  to  sing  the  praises 
of  books,  but  the  verses  of  Alcuin  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  the  eighth  century  are  evidence 
of  that  blossoming  of  love  for  the  wisdom  of 
the  sages,  then  so  diflScult  of  gratification ;  a 
love  which  grew  upon  what  it  fed,  until  in 
this  day  it  finds  expression  in  the  yearnings, 
so  plaintively  expressed,  of  the  lamented 
bibhomaniac  of  Buena  Park — 

"Oh  for  a  booke  and  a  shady  nooke 

Eyther  in  doore  or  out, 
With  the  greene  leaves  whispering  overhead, 

Or  the  streete  cryes  all  about ; 
Where  I  male  reade  all  at  my  ease 

Both  of  the  newe  and  old, 
For  a  jollie  goode  booke  whereon  to  looke 

Is  better  to  me  than  golde  1" 

The  editor  takes  the  sweet  unction  to  his 
soul  that  his  collection  of  the  songs  of  book- 
land  is  more  extensive  than  any  that  has 
yet  been  presented,  but  if  it  is  in  any  way 
lacking  it  may  not  be  laid  to  his  indiffer- 
ence; but  rather  to  that  frugality  which 


Introduction 


sometimes  seizes  humanity  for  no  apparent 
reason.  Yet  he  has  to  acknowledge,  and 
does  so  with  a  proper  feeling  of  gratitude, 
the  kindness  of  many  publishers  and  au- 
thors who  have  so  readily  given  permission 
for  the  use  of  their  verses,  and  if  by  chance 
any  have  been  overlooked  it  will  not  have 
been  due  to  a  disregard  of  the  rights  of 
property,  but  to  the  impossibiUty  of  identi- 
fying verses  which  have  been  caught  in 
their  rounds  of  the  press.  To  these  apolo- 
gies are  hereby  tendered. 

H.  S.  K. 

EOCHESTEB,  N.  Y. 


ix 


Publishers'  Note 

To  ALL  authors  and  publishers,  whose 
work  is  included  in  this  volume,  we  are  in- 
debted for  their  generosity. 

We  should  feel  remiss,  however,  if  we  did 
not  especially  acknowledge  our  gratitude  to 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company,  The  Century 
Company,  The  Bookman,  The  Philistine,  P. 
F.  Collier,  D.  Appleton  &  Company,  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  Mr. 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  Mr.  Frank  L. 
Stanton,  Mr.  Maurice  Francis  Egan,  Mr. 
Charles  R.  Williams,  Mr.  John  Kendrick 
Bangs,  President  John  H.  Finley,  Mr.  Clin- 
ton Scollard,  Mr.  Edmund  Clarence  Sted- 
man,  and  Mr.  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  not 
only  for  their  courtesy  in  contributing  ma- 
terial to  the  book,  but  also  for  their  many 
kindly  suggestions  during  its  preparation 
and  their  evident  sympathy  with  the  edi- 
tor's purpose — to  compile  from  many  sources 
a  volume  of  verse  that  will  be  a  joy  to  the 
book-lover  and  the  bibliomaniac. 


Contents 


Aimless  Beading— TTt Wiam  Cowper,  136 

Altruism— iJev.  William  Wood,  126 

Among  My  Books — Samuel  Mintum  Peck,  204 

Annetta  Jones,  Her  Book— Frank  L.  Stanton,  43 

An  Uncut  Copy — John  Kendrick  Bangs,  92 

At  a  Book  Store— OZtrer  Wendell  Holmes,  29 

Attentive  Book  Seller,  The — Irving  Browne,  155 
Ballade  of  Book  Making,  A—Jtistin  Huntley 

McCarthy,  85 

Ballade  of  Confession,  A — Harold  McGrath,  89 

Ballade  of  Montaigne,  X— Arthur  Macy,  17 
Ballade  of  Poor  Book-worms — The  Century 

Magazine,  6 
Betty  Barnes,  the  Book  Burner— iJoaamund 

Marriott-  Watson,  117 
Bibliomaniac's  Assignment  of  Binders,  The — 

Irving  Browne,  137 
Bibliomaniac's  Bride— ^ugrenc  JiHeld,  201 
Bibliophile,  The— ^i/rcdC.Sron<,  21 
Boccaccio — Eugene  Field,  40 
Book,  The — Emily  Dickinson,  IS 
Book,  The— Post  Wheeler,  110 
Book,  The— John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  210 
BookAuction,  The— IT. -ff.  FenaftJe,  175 
Book  Battalion,  The — George  Parsons  Lathrop,  132 
Book  Brotherhood- £;dward  Foskett,  67 
Book  by  the  Brook,  A — James  Freeman  Clarke,  186 
Book  Collector,  The— ^  lezander  Barclay,  167 
Book  I've  Bead  Before,  The— Charles  B.  Bal- 
lard, m. 

ziii 


Contents 


Book  Lover's  Apologia,  k—Harriette  C,  8. 

JBuckfiam,  83 

Book  Lover's  Panegyric,  A— Cyril  M.  Drew,  59 

Bookman's  Catch — James  Whiicomb  Riley,  61 
Bookman's  Complaint  of  his  Lady,  A — Richard 

Le  Gfallienne,  165 

Book  of  Poems,  A— William  R.  Jacobs,  163 

Books— George  W.  Armstrong,  179 

Book»— Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  98 

Books — Cyril  M.  Drew,  177 

Books — A  If  red  Lavington,  104 

Books — William  Wordsworth,  140 
Books  I  Ought  to  Bead,  ThQ—Abbie  Farwell 

Brown,  73 

Bookstall,  Th&— Clinton  Scollard,  197 

Bookworm,  The — Austiii  Dobson,  37 
Bookworm  Does  not  Care  for  Nature,  The — 

Irving  Browne,  143 

Bookworms,  The— Robert  Burns,  52 

Bookworm's  Pledge,  The — C.  D.  Raymer,  93 

Burton's  Anatomy — Andrew  Lang,  3 

Caravansary,  The — Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  203 
Chrysalis  of  a  Bookworm,  The— Maurice 

Francis  Egan,  16 
Companions— iStcTwird  Henry  Stoddard,  19 
Collector's  Catalogue,  A— The  Hartford  Post,  147 
Dedication  to  Cornelius  N epos— Cattullus,  216 
Disappointed  Faddist,  A — The  Boston  Tran- 
script, 131 . 
Dreams — John  Kendrick  Bangs,  96 
Envoy— iZobert  Louis  Stevenson,  217 
Eztra  Illustrating — Harry  B.  Smith,  113 
Fable  for  Critics,  A — James  Russell  Lowell,  105 
Fellow  Feeling— r/ie  Chicago  Record,  12 
Fogy,  A— Will  T.  Hale,  187 
For  a  Copy  of  "  The  Compleat  Angler  "—^wsWn 

Dobson,  195 

Friends  in  Solitude — John  Moore,  185 
xiv 


Contents 


Prom  "Idylls  and  Epigrams  "—IZicftard  Gamett,  39 

From  Phyllis— CaroJme  Duer,  139 

Give  Me  the  0\A— Robert  Hinchley  Messenger,  25 

Good  Book,  X— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  6 

His  Favorite  Book— 77ie  Chicago  Record,  159 
How  a  Bibliomaniac  Binds  his  Books— Jrvinfir 

Browne,  141 

How  to  Bead  Me — Walter  Savage  Landor,  66 

In  a  Book  of  Old  Plays—  Walter  Learned,  191 

In  Arcady— C/iarJea  T.  Lusted,  176 

In  a  Library— iZtc/iard  Burton,  103 

In  a  Library— ^miiy  Dickinson,  69 

In  a  Library— rwdor  Jenks,  65 

In  a  Library—^  lice  Sawielle  Randall,  81 

In  an  Old  Library— Jo/in  Todhunter,  153 

In  an  Old  Library— GciA  Turner,  181 

In  the  Library—^.  V.  8.  Herbert,  47 

In  the  Library— Cimfon  Scollard,  88 
Invocation  in  a  Library,  An— Helen  Oray  Cone,  183 

lo  Grolierii  et  Ami-Corum — Halkett  Lord,  78 

Johnny,  Get  Yonr  Glossary— 77ie  Sketch,  193 
Land  of  Story  Books,  The — Robert  Louis 

Stevenson,  35 

Lay  of  the  Grolierite,  The— TT.  2>.  EUwanger,  97 
Legend  of  the  Strand,  A— John  Kendrick  Bangs,  45 

Library,  The — John  Oreenleaf  Whitiier,  149 

Library  of  a  Gentleman  Deceased — TJie  Sketch,  209 

Library  of  York  Cathedral,  The — A  Icuin,  171 
Lines  fer  Isaac  Bradwell— Jiames  Whitcomb 

Riley,  54 

Lines  to  a  Book  Borrower— J*.  C,  198 

Little  Book,  A— Frank  L.  Stanton,  215 

Little  Bookworm,  A— Monroe  H,  Rosen/eld,  205 

Marcus  Varro — Eugene  Field,  27 

My  Books— ^uatin  Dobson,  15 

My  Books— fir.  J.  Adair  Fitz-Gerald,  TZ 

iiy  Books— Willis  Fletcher  JohnsoHt  23 

My  Books— iVatAan  M.  Levy,  71 
XV 


Contents 


My  Books— Henrj/  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  7 

My  Books— Justin  Huntley  McCarthy,  83 

My  Books— ^Mcc  Sawtelle  Randall,  145 

My  Books— jr.  Williams,  123 

My  Harem— Jieremtaft  Mahoney,  211 

My  Library—  99 

My  Lord  the  Book— JbTin  Kendrick  Bangs,  118 

My  Presentation  Book-Case— TTtMiam  Sharp,  95 

Neglected  Poet  in  a  Library,  A— Adam  Quince,  42 

Nulla  Betrorsum-  207 

Of  My  Books— CTiarZe*  Washington  Colemaii,  74 

Of  Reading— ilfartin  Farquhar  Tupper,  120 

Of  the  Book  Hunter— ^Tidreto  Lang,  109 

Old  and  New—  119 

Old  Books—  192 

Old  Books,  The— The  Spectator,  8 

Old  Books  Are  Bestr-Beverly  Chew,  63 

Old  Friends,  Old  Books— CftarJes  B.  Williams,  134 
On  Lamb's  Specimens  of  Dramatic  Poets— ^.  C, 

Swinburne,  111 
Other  "  Saints  and  Sinners'  Comev  "—Johannes 

Hustonius  Finleius,  127 

Personal  Talk — William,  Wordsworth,  11 
Pleasant  World  of  Books,  The — Margaret  E. 

Sangster,  160 
Poems  Here  at  Home,  The— James  Whitcomb 

Riley,  79 

Religio  Medici — John  Todhunter,  151 

Scholar  and  His  Books,  The — Chaucer,  65 

Shake,  Mulleary  and  Go-ethe — H.  C.  Bunner,  199 

Solace  of  Books,  The— The  Spectator,  1 
Sonnet  on  Parting  with  his  Books— William 

Roscoe,  170 

Sonnet  ll-Shakespeare,  64 

Student,  The— Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  53 

These  Books  of  Mine— ^Mflrene  Field,  49 

Thoughts  in  a  Library— ^nne  C.  Lynch  Bolta,  169 

Three  Good  Things— CTiaries  G,  D.  Roberts,  135 
xvi 


Contents 


Toast  to  Omar  Ehayyfim — Theodore  Watts- 

Dttnton,  156 

To  an  Old  Book— Edgar  Greenleaf  Bradford,  107 

To  Caliph  OmaiV— Irving  Browne,  48 
To  his  Book — Rev.  Canon  Howe's  translation 

of  Horace,  188 

To  My  Good  Master— James  Whitcomb  Riley,  87 

Too  Many  Books— Robert  Leighton,  213 

To  Robert  Herrick— 77ie  Philistine,  125 

To  the  Book  of  Follies— TTiomas  Moore,  91 

Triolet  to  Her  Husband— i**.  FertiauU,  62 

Truth  About  Horace,  The — Eugene  Field,  51 

Two  Greeks — Meredith  Nicholson,  58 

Verses  in  a  Library— JoTiw  Kendrick  Bangs,  173 

Volume  of  Dante,  A.— Caroline  Wilder  Fellows,  26 

Wiser  than  Books— ^afrma  Trask,  90 

With  a  Copy  of  Herrick— ^cimwnd  Gosse,  212 
With  a  Copy  of  the  Iliad— Edmund  Clarence 

Stedman,  108 

With  Pipe  and  Book — Richard  Le  Oallienne,  146 
Written  in  "A  Complete  Angler"— William 

Wordsworth,  84 

Young  Wife's  Plaint,  The—  115 


THE  SOLACE  OF  BOOKS 

VXTHAT  matter  though  my  room  be 
small, 

Though  this  red  lamplight  looks 
On  nothing  but  a  papered  wall 

And  some  few  rows  of  books? 

For  in  my  hand  I  hold  a  key 

That  opens  golden  doors ; 
At  whose  resistless  sesame 

A  tide  of  sunlight  pours, 

In  from  the  basking  lawns  that  lie 

Beyond  the  bound'ry  wall ; 
Where  summer  broods  eternally, 

Where  the  cicalas  call. 

There  all  the  landscape  softer  is. 
There  greener  tendrils  twine, 

The  bowers  are  roofed  with  clematis, 
With  briony  and  vine. 

There  pears  and  golden  apples  hang, 

There  falls  the  honey-dew, 
And  there  the  birds  that  morning  sang, 

When  all  the  world  was  new. 
1 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Beneath  the  oaks  Menalcas  woos 
Arachnia's  nut-brown  eyes ; 

And  still  the  laughing  Faun  pursues, 
And  still  the  wood-nymph  flies. 

And  you  may  hear  young  Orpheus  there 
Come  singing  through  the  wood, 

Or  catch  the  gleam  of  golden  hair 
In  Dian's  sohtude. 

So  when  the  world  is  all  awry, 

When  life  is  out  of  chime, 
I  take  this  key  of  gold  and  fly 

To  that  serener  clime ; 

To  those  fair  sunlit  lawns  that  lie 

Beyond  the  bound 'ry  wall, 
Where  summer  broods  eternally 

And  youth  is  over  all. 

The  Spectator. 


Burton's  Anatomy 


BURTON'S  ANATOMY 

A  QUAINT  old  store  of  learning  lies 
In  Burton's  pleasant  pages, 
"With  long  quotations  that  comprise 

The  wisdom  of  the  ages. 
'Tis  strange  to  read  him  'mid  the  crowd 

And  modem  hurly-burly ; 
The  only  author  Johnson  vowed 
Could  make  him  get  up  early. 

He  lived  a  solitary  life, 

He  said  "Mihi  et  musis," 
And  put  his  rest  from  worldly  strife 

To  very  pleasant  uses. 
He  wrote  the  book  wherein  we  find 

"All  joys  to  this  are  folly," 
And  naught  to  the  reflective  mind 

"So  sweet  as  melancholy." 

How  strangely  he  dissects  his  theme 

In  manner  anatomic ; 
He's  earnest  at  one  time,  you  deem, 

Now  decorously  comic. 
And  most  prodigiously  he  quotes, 

With  learning  quite  gigantic, 
Or  telling  classic  anecdotes, 

Is  pleasantly  pedantic. 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


There's  sterling  sense  in  every  page, 

And  shrewdest  cogitation ; 
Your  keen  attention  he'll  engage, 

And  honest  admiration. 
If  any  man  should  vow  to  live 

With  but  one  book,  be  certain 
To  him  could  friendly  fortune  give 

No  better  book  than  Burton. 

He  lies  at  rest  in  Christ's  Church  aisle. 

With  all  his  erudition ; 
The  hieroglyphics  make  one  smile, 

That  show  his  superstition. 
His  epitaph  survives  to-day, 

As  one  "Cui  vitam  dedit 
Et  mortem  Melancholia," 

So  he  himself  has  said  it. 

Andkew  Lang.  • 


Ballade  of  Poor  Book- Worms 


BALLADE  OF  POOR  BOOK- WORMS 

•THE  book-stall  on  the  comer  bleak, 

Its  grinning  keeper  knows  US  well; 
As  we  pass  by  we  never  speak, 

But  often  linger  for  a  spell. 

We  ken  the  kernel  by  the  shell, 
And  oft  our  slender  purse  is  led 

Its  grudging  silver  down  to  tell : 
Books  we  must  have  though  we  lack  bread ! 

Great  stores  we  pass  with  glance  oblique — 
Our  coins  their  coffers  seldom  swell ; 

We  wend  to  second-hand  shop  meek ; 

We  heed  not  dust,  nor  dirt,  nor  smell, 
The  creaking  door  a  cracked  old  bell 

Sets  jangling,  and  the  hinge  is  red 

With  rust,  but  bargains  here  they  sell : 

Books  we  must  have  though  we  lack  bread ! 

We  haunt  book  auctions  week  by  week ; 

Sweet  music  to  our  ears  is  yell 
Of  "Going,  going,"  and  the  shriek 
Of  "Gone !"— since  unto  us  it  fell, 
"Lot  3."    One  cast  us  down  to  hell 
With  Dante,  one  to  heaven  sped 

Our  souls— his  namesake's  Damozel : 

Books  we  must  have  though  we  lack  bread ! 

5 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


ENVOY 

Love,  when  our  plenishing  we'd  seek, 

We  bought  the  bookcase  ere  the  bed ; 
And  this  is  still  the  purse's  leak : 

Books  we  must  have  though  we  lack 
bread  1 

The  Centuby  Magazine. 


A  GOOD  BOOK 

'THAT  book  is  good 

Which  puts  me  in  a  working  mood. 
Unless  to  Thought  is  added  Will, 
Apollo  is  an  imbecile. 
What  parts,  what  gems,  what  colors 

shine, — 
Ah,  but  I  miss  the  grand  design. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emebson. 


My  Books 


MY  BOOKS 

C  ADLY  as  some  old  mediaeval  knight 

Gazed  at  the  arms  he  could  no  longei 
wield, 
The  sword  two-handed  and  the  shining 

shield 
Suspended  in  the  hall,  and  full  in  sight, 
While  secret  longings  for  the  lost  delight 
Of  tourney  or  adventure  in  the  field 
Came  over  him,  and  tears  but  half  con- 
cealed 
Trembled  and  fell  upon  his  beard  of  white, 
So  I  behold  these  books  upon  their  shelf, 
My  ornaments  and  arms  of  other  days ; 
Not  wholly  useless,  though  no  longer  used, 
For  they  remind  me  of  my  other  self. 
Younger  and  stronger,  and  the  pleasant 

ways 
In  which  I  walked,  now  clouded  and  con- 
fused. 
Henky  Wadswobth  Longfellow. 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


THE  OLD  BOOKS 

•THE  old  books,  the  old  books,  the  books 
of  long  ago ! 

Who  ever  felt  Miss  Austen  tame,  or  called 
Sir  Walter  slow? 

We  did  not  care  the  worst  to  bare  of  human 
sty  or  den ; 

We  liked  to  love  a  little  bit  and  trust  our 
fellow-men. 

The  old  books,  the  old  books,  as  pure  as 
summer  breeze ! 

We  read  them  under  garden  boughs,  by  fire- 
light on  our  knees, 

They  did  not  teach,  they  did  not  preach,  or 
scold  us  into  good ; 

A  noble  spirit  from  them  breathed,  the  rest 
was  understood. 

O  happy  dusk,  when  lamps  were  lit,  around 
a  mother's  chair, 

To  listen  as  she  read,  and  breathe  the  rich, 
enchanted  air ; 

Of  banner  bright  and  stainless  knight,  of 
eerie  elfin  page. 

With  all  that  glamour  of  delight,  that  won- 
drous Middle  Age. 
8 


The  Old  Books 


Then  was  there  no  forbidden  tree  with  long- 
ing vainly  eyed ; 

No  hiding  books  with  lock  and  key  to  child- 
ish ears  denied ; 

The  Ubrary  was  open  field  where  all  might 
come  and  go ; 

The  Serpent  had  not  yet  revealed  his  herit- 
age of  woe. 

The  new  books,  the  new  books,  the  great 

neurotic  school ! 
That  never  let  the  Furies  sleep,  the  fervid 

passions  cool. 
Be  real !  they  cry,  and  lust  and  strife  thick 

crowd  the  horrid  stage ; 
And  every  loathsome  ill  of  life  is  "copy"  to 

their  page. 
The  new  books,  the  new  books,  the  other 

nobler  kind ! 
Straight  from  the   heart    they   come    and 

speak,  and  round  the  heart  they  wind. 
Marcella  in  her  loveUer  mood,  a  Stevenson, 

a  Thrums, 
A  Kipling  great  in  camp  and  wood,  a  Be- 

sant  in  the  slums ! 
Not  theirs  to  hint  that  all  is  dark,  the  sun 

has  fled  the  day. 
Not  theirs  to  stamp  the  autumn  leaf  more 

deeply  in  the  clay ! 


9 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


In  every  life  they  find  a  strain  of  good  aa 

yet  untold ; 
In  simple  hearts  a  noble  vein  of  unsuspected 

gold; 
They  hold  the  mirror  to  our  times,  they 

paint  in  motley  dyes 
The  image  of  our  wants  and  crimes;  they 

bid  us  sympathize. 
And  not  in  vain :  so  rich  the  art,  so  rare  the 

painter's  skill, 
They  wake  in  every  sleeping  heart  the  old 

knight-errant  still. 

But  the  old  books,  the  old  books,  the  mother 
loves  them  best ; 

They  leave  no  bitter  taste  behind  to  haunt 
the  youthful  breast : 

They  bid  us  hope,  they  bid  us  fill  our  hearts 
with  visions  fair ; 

They  do  not  paralyze  the  will  with  problems 
of  despair. 

And  as  they  lift  from  sloth  and  sense  to  fol- 
low loftier  pains, 

And  stir  the  blood  of  indolence  to  bubble  in 
the  veins : 

Inheritors  of  mighty  things,  who  own  a  lin- 
eage high, 

We  feel  within  us  budding  wings  that  long 
to  reach  the  sky : 


10 


The  Old  Books 


To  rise  above  the  commonplace,  and  through 

the  cloud  to  soar, 
And  join  the  loftier  company  of  grander 

souls  of  yore. 
Then  as  she  reads  each  magic  scene,  the 

firelight  burning  low. 
How  flush  the  cheeks!    how  quick,  how 

keen,  the  heart-beats  come  and  go ! 
The  mother's  voice  is  soft  and  sweet,  the 

mother's  look  is  kind, 
But  she  has  tones  that  cause  to  beat  all  pas- 
sions of  the  mind ; 
And  Alice  weeps,  and  Jack  inspired  rides 

forth  a  hero  bold ; 
60  master  passions,  early  fired,  bum  on 

when  life  is  cold. 

Thb  Spectatob. 


U 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


FELLOW-FEELING 

MOT  a  man  of  world-wide  haunts ; 
I've  never  seen  a  foreign  land ; 
The  wondrous  things  the  guidebook  flaunts 

I  only  know  at  second  hand. 
And  yet  I  swear,  from  east  to  west, 

The  points  where  all  directions  meet, 
The  thoroughfare  I  love  the  best. 

Is  Tom  De  Quincey's  Oxford  Street. 

Request  me  not  to  name  its  trend ; 

Invite  me  not,  I  pray,  to  name 
Its  place  of  starting  or  its  end — 

On  this  my  information's  lame. 
No  friend  of  mine  has  ever  dwelt 

Beside  its  lines ;  yet  I  repeat 
For  years  and  years  and  years  I've  felt 

An  ardent  love  for  Oxford  Street. 

A  warmth  of  love  from  pity  bom. 

Begotten  of  the  book  which  told 
How,  heartsick,  famishing  and  worn, 

De  Quincey  in  the  days  of  old 
Staggered  along  in  grim  despair 

And  battled  bravely  with  defeat 
Beneath  the  ruddy,  cheery  glare 

Of  lamps  that  burned  in  Oxford  Street. 
12 


Fellow- Feeling 


Not  for  the  dreams  the  poppy  gave, 

Not  for  the  story  of  the  price 
The  truth-recording  brilliant  slave 

Paid  for  the  pleasures  of  his  vice — 
Not  for  the  magic  of  his  lines, 

With  wit  and  charm  and  grace  replete, 
Is  it  that  my  esteem  incMnes 

To  Tom  De  Quincey's  Oxford  Street. 

Ah,  no.    My  warmest  feelings  woke 

Upon  that  day  when  first  I  read 
Of  how,  superlatively  broke. 

Drum-empty  and  without  a  red, 
A  stranger  in  a  stranger  town, 

Having  forgotten  how  to  eat, 
The  scholar  wandered  up  and  down 

Unsympathetic  Oxford  Street. 

It  roused  my  sympathy,  I  say, 

Because,  it  chanced,  one  time  I  struck, 
Within  a  town  not  far  away. 

Just  such  a  wretched  run  of  luck, 
When,  friendless  in  the  passing  throng, 

Without  a  kindly  word  to  greet 
My  misery,  I  drilled  along — 

Well,  let  us  call  it  Oxford  Street. 

I  know,  I  had  that  in  my  heart 
That  marked  the  scholar's  deep  distress. 

I  know  his  woe — it's  every  part 
I  know,  I  do  not  have  to  guess. 
13 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


The  words  he  wrote  bind  him  to  me 
In  brotherhood  firm  and  complete, 

And  in  my  mind  together  we 
Have  often  walked  down  Oxford  Street. 

And  so  I  let  the  others  laud 

The  "Eater's"  witchery  and  art; 
I  only  give  a  silent  nod, 

But  deep,  deep  down  within  my  heart, 
Unceasing  blessings  I  invoke 

And  peaceful  rest,  profound,  complete, 
To  him  who  walked  when  he  was  broke 

Beneath  the  lamps  of  Oxford  Street. 
The  Chicago  Becobd. 


14 


My  Books 


MY  BOOKS 

'THEY  dwell  in  the  odor  of  camphor, 
They  stand  in  a  Sheraton  shrine, 
They  are  "warranted  early  editions," 
These  worshipful  tomes  of  mine ; — 

In  their  creamiest  "Oxford  vellum," 
In  their  redolent  "crushed  Levant," 

"With  their  delicate  watered  linings, 
They  are  jewels  of  price,  I  grant; — 

Blind-tooled  and  morocco-jointed, 
They  have  Bedford's  daintiest  dress. 

They  are  graceful,  attenuate,  polished, 
But  they  gather  the  dust,  no  less ; — 

For  the  row  that  I  prize  is  yonder, 
Away  on  the  unglazed  shelves, 

The  bulged  and  the  bruised  octavos, 
The  dear  and  the  dumpy  twelves, — 

Montaigne  with  his  sheep-skin  blistered, 
And  Howell  the  worse  for  wear. 

And  the  worm-drilled  Jesuits'  Horace, 
And  the  little  old  cropped  Moli^re,— 

And  the  Burton  I  bought  for  a  florin, 

And  the  Rabelais  foxed  and  flea'd — 
For  the  others  I  never  have  opened, 
But  those  are  the  books  I  read. 

Austin  Dobson. 
15 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


THE  CHRYSALIS  OF  A  BOOK-WORM 

I  READ,  O  friend,  no  pages  of  old  lore, 
Which  I  loved  well,  and  yet  the  flying 
days. 
That  softly  passed  as  wind  through  green 
spring  ways 
And  left  a  perfume,  swift  fly  as  of  yore. 
Though  in  clear  Plato's  stream  I  look  no 
more, 
Neither  with  Moschus  sing  Sicilian  lays, 
Nor  with  bold  Dante  wander  in  amaze. 
Nor  see  our  Will  the  Golden  Age  restore. 
I  read  a  book  to  which  old  books  are  new, 
And  new  books  old.    A  living  book  is 

mine — 
In  age,  three  years :  in  it  I  read  no  lies — 
In  it  to  myriad  truths  I  find  the  clew — 
A  tender,  little  child :  but  I  divine 
Thoughts   high  as  Dante's  in  its   clear 
blue  eyes. 

Maurice  Fbancis  Egan. 


16 


A  Ballade  of  Montaigne 


A  BALLADE  OF  MONTAIGNE 

I  SIT  before  the  firelight's  glow, 

With  peace  between  the  world  and  me, 

And  con  good  Master  Florio 
With  pipe  a-light ;  and  as  I  see 
Queen  Bess  herself  with  book  a-knee 

Reading  it  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
Here,  'neath  my  cozy  mantel-tree, 

I  smoke  my  pipe  and  read  Montaigne. 

Now  howls  the  wind  and  drives  the  snow ; 

The  traveler  shivers  on  the  lea ; 
While,  with  my  precious  folio, 

Behold  a  happy  devotee 

To  book  and  warmth  and  reverie ! 
The  blast  upon  the  window-pane 

Disturbs  me  not,  as,  trouble-free, 
I  smoke  my  pipe  and  read  Montaigne. 

I  am  content,  and  thus  I  know 
A  mind  as  calm  as  summer  sea, — 

A  heart  that  stranger  is  to  woe. 
To  happiness  I  hold  the  key 
In  this  rare,  sweet  philosophy; 

And  while  the  Fates  so  fair,  ordain, 
Well  pleased  with  Destiny's  decree, 

I  smoke  my  pipe  and  read  Montaigne. 
2  17 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Prince !  aye,  King  be  your  degree, 
Thou  monarch  of  immortal  reign  1 

Always  thy  subject  I  would  be. 
And  smoke  my  pipe  and  read  Montaigne ! 
Arthur  Macy. 


THE  BOOK 

•THERE  is  no  frigate  like  a  book 

To  take  us  leagues  away, 
Nor  any  coursers  like  a  page 

Of  prancing  poetry. 
This  traverse  may  the  poorest  take 

Without  oppress  of  toll ; 
How  frugal  is  the  chariot 
That  bears  a  human  soul ! 

Emily  Dickinson. 


18 


Companions 


COMPANIONS 

"A  French  writer  (whom  I  love  well)  speaks  of 
three  kinds  of  companions,  men,  women  and  books." 
—Sib  John  Datis. 

■\A7'E  have  companions,  comrade  mine ; 
Jolly  good  fellows,  tried  and  true, 
Are  filling  their  cups  with  the  Rhenish  wine. 

And  pledging  each  other,  as  I  do  you. 
Never  a  man  in  all  the  land 

But  has,  in  his  hour  of  need,  a  friend, 
Who  stretches  to  him  a  helping  hand. 

And  stands  by  him  to  the  bitter  end. 
If  not  before,  there  is  comfort  then, 
In  the  strong  companionship  of  men. 

But  better  than  that,  old  friend  of  mine. 

Is  the  love  of  woman,  the  life  of  life, 
Whether  in  maiden's  eyes  it  shine, 

Or  meltfl  in  the  tender  kiss  of  wife ; 
A  heart  contented  to  feel,  not  know, 

That  finds  in  the  other  its  sole  delight ; 
White  hands  that  are  loth  to  let  us  go, 

The  tenderness  that  is  more  than  might ! 
On  earth  below,  in  heaven  above. 
Is  there  anything  better  than  woman's  love? 


19 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


I  do  not  say  so,  companion  mine, 

For  what,  without  it,  would  I  be  here? 
It  lightens  my  troubles,  like  this  good  wine, 

And,  if  I  must  weep,  sheds  tear  for  tear! 
But  books,  old  friends  that  are  always  new, 

Of  all  good  things  that  Ave  know  are  best ; 
They  never  forsake  us,  as  others  do, 

And  never  disturb  our  inward  rest. 
Here  is  truth  in  a  world  of  lies. 
And  all  that  in  man  is  great  and  wise  I 

Better  than  men  and  women,  friend, 
That  are  dust,  though  dear  in  our  joy  and 
pain, 
Are  the  books  their  cunning  hands  have 
penned. 
For  they  depart,  but  the  books  remain ; 
Through  these  they  speak  to  us  what  was 
best 
In  the  loving  heart  and  the  noble  mind ; 
All  their  royal  souls  possessed 

Belongs  for  ever  to  all  mankind ! 
When  others  fail  him,  the  wise  man  looks 
To  the  sure  companionship  of  books. 

KiCHAKD  Henky  Stoddard. 


20 


The  Bibliophile 


THE  BIBLIOPHILE 

•THE  lover  may  rave  of  his  ruddy-cheeked 
lass, 
The  sailor  may  sing  of  the  sea : 
And  topers  may  tell  of  the  charms  of  the 
glass, 
But  books  have  more  beauty  for  me. 

A  book  is  a  treasure  more  precious  than 
gold; 

An  heirloom  bequeathed  to  mankind ; 
A  casket  of  wisdom  in  which  we  behold 

The  kingliest  gems  of  the  mind. 

Though  humble  my  lot,  yet  dull  care  I  defy, 

With  books  for  my  gentle  allies ; 
And  folly  and  vice  from  my  presence  will 

fly 

"When  I  think  of  the  good  and  the  wise. 

My  books  shall  supply  me  with  balm  for  each 
blow, 
When  fortune  my  best  effort  spurns ; 
With  Swift  I  will  laugh  at  the  high  and  the 
low. 
And  mourn  o'er  a  "mousie"  with  Bums. 

21 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


While  sitting  at  ease  by  my  own  fireside, 
A  famous  old  book  on  my  knee, 

A  lover  alone  with  his  beautiful  bride 
Would  win  little  envy  from  me. 

My  heart  feels  at  peace  as  through  Book- 
world  I  roam, 
The  fair  realms  of  fancy  are  mine, 
And  Love's  holy  spirit  now  rests  on  my 
home — 
My  Book  is  the  Volume  Divine. 

Alfred  C.  Beant. 


22 


My  Books 


MY  BOOKS 

/^N  my  study  shelves  they  stand, 
^^    "Well  known  all  to  eye  and  hand, 
Bound  in  gorgeous  cloth  of  gold, 
In  morocco  rich  and  old. 
Some  in  paper,  plain  and  cheap. 
Some  in  muslin,  calf,  and  sheep ; 
Volumes  great  and  volumes  small, 
Banged  along  my  study  wall ; 
But  their  contents  are  past  finding 
By  their  size  or  by  their  bmding. 

There  is  one  with  gold  agleam, 
Like  the  Sangreal  in  a  dream, 
Back  and  boards  in  every  part 
Triumph  of  the  binder's  art ; 
Costing  more,  'tis  well  believed. 
Than  the  author  e'er  received. 
But  its  contents?    Idle  tales, 
Flappings  of  a  shallop's  sails ! 
In  the  treasury  of  learning 
Scarcely  worth  a  penny's  tumii^. 

Here's  a  tome  in  paper  plain. 
Soiled  and  torn  and  marred  with  stain, 
Cowering  from  each  statelier  book 
In  the  darkest,  dustiest  nook. 
23 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Take  it  down,  and  lo !  each  page 
Breathes  the  wisdom  of  a  sage : 
Weighed  a  thousand  times  in  gold, 
Half  its  worth  would  not  be  told, 
For  all  truth  of  ancient  story 
Crowns  each  line  with  deathless  glory. 

On  my  study  shelves  they  stand ; 
But  my  study  walls  expand, 
As  thought's  pinions  are  unfurled, 
Till  they  compass  all  the  world. 
Endless  files  go  marching  by, 
Men  of  lowly  rank  and  high, 
Some  in  broadcloth,  gem-adorned, 
Some  in  homespun,  fortune-scorned ; 
But  God's  scales  that  all  are  weighed  in 
Heed  not  what  each  man's  arrayed  in ! 
Willis  Fletchek  Johnson. 


24 


Give  Me  the  Old 


GIVE  ME  THE  OLD 

/^LD  books  to  read! — 

Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit. 
The  brazen-clasped,  the  vellum  writ, 

Time-honored  tomes ! 
The  same  my  sire  scanned  before, 
The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o'er, 
The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore, 
The  well-earned  meed 
Of  Oxford's  domes ; 
Old  Homer  blind, 
Old  Horace,  rake  Anacreon,  by 
Old  TuUy,  Plautus,  Terence  lie ; 
Mort  Arthur's  olden  minstrelsie. 
Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay ! 
And  Gervase  Markham's  venerie, — 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  Holye  Book  by  which  we  live  and 
die. 

Robert  Hinchley  Messengek. 


25 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


A  VOLUME  OF  DANTE 

T  LIE  unread,  alone.    None  heedeth  me. 
Day  after  day  the  cobwebs  are  unswept 
From  my  dim  covers.    I  have  lain  and 
slept 
In  dust  and  darkness  for  a  century. 
An  old  forgotten  volume  I.    You  see ! 
Such  mighty  words  within  my  heart  are 

kept 
That,  reading  once,  great  Ariosto  wept 
In  vain  despair  so  impotent  to  be. 

And  once,  with  pensive  eyes  and  drooping 
head, 
Musing,  Vittoria  Colonna  came, 
And  touched  my  leaves  with  dreamy 
finger-tips, 
Lifted  me  up  half  absently,  and  read ; 

Then  kissed  the  page  with  sudden,  ten- 
der lips, 
And  sighed,  and  murmured  one  beloved 
name. 

Cakolink  Wildek  Fellows. 


26 


Marcus  Varro 


MARCUS  VARRO 

jyj  ARCUS  VARRO  went  up  and  down 

The  places  where  old  books  were  sold ; 
He  ransacked  all  the  shops  in  town 

For  pictures  new  and  pictures  old. 
He  gave  the  folk  of  earth  no  peace ; 

Snooping  around  by  day  and  night, 
He  plied  the  trade  in  Rome  and  Greece 

Of  an  insatiate  Grangerite. 

"Pictures!"  was  evermore  his  cry — 

"Pictures  of  old  or  recent  date," 
And  pictures  only  would  he  buy 

Wherewith  to  "extra-illustrate." 
Full  many  a  tome  of  ancient  type 

And  many  a  manuscript  he  took 
For  nary  purpose  but  to  swipe 

Their  pictures  for  some  other  book. 

While  Marcus  Varro  plied  his  fad 

There  was  not  in  the  shops  of  Greece 
A  book  or  pamphlet  to  be  had 

That  was  not  minus  frontiepiece. 
Nor  did  he  hesitate  to  ply 

His  baleful  practices  at  home ; 
It  was  not  possible  to  buy 

A  perfect  book  in  all  of  Rome ! 
27 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


What  must  the  other  folk  have  done — 

Who,   glancing   o'er   the  books    they 
bought, 
Came  soon  and  suddenly  upon 

The  vandalism  Varro  wrought ! 
How  must  their  cheeks  have  flamed  with 
red — 

How  did  their  hearts  with  choler  beat ! 
We  can  imagine  what  they  said — 

We  can  imagine,  not  repeat ! 

Where  are  the  books  that  Varro  made — 

The  pride  of  dilettante  Rome — 
With  divers  portraitures  inlaid 

Swiped  from  so  many  another  tome? 
The  worms  devoured  them  long  ago — 

O  wretched  worms !  ye  should  have  fed 
Not  on  the  books  "extended"  bo 

But  on  old  Varro's  flesh,  instead ! 

Alas,  that  Marcus  Varro  lives 

And  is  a  potent  factor  yet ! 
Alas,  that  still  his  practice  gives 

Good  men  occasion  for  regret ! 
To  yonder  bookstall,  pri'thee,  go, 

And  by  the  "missing"  prints  and  plates 
And  frontispieces  you  shall  know 

He  lives,  and  "extra-illustrates!" 

Eugene  Field. 

"The  Love  Affairs  of  a  Bibliomaniac." 
—Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

28 


At  a  Bookstore 


AT  A  BOOKSTORE 

[Anno  Domini,  1972.] 

A  CRAZY  bookcase,  placed  before 
A  low-price  dealer's  open  door; 
Therein  arrayed  in  broken  rows 
A  ragged  crew  of  rhyme  and  prose, 
The  homeless  vagrants,  waifs,  and  strays 
Whose  low  estate  this  line  betrays 
(Set  forth  the  lesser  birds  to  lime) 
youb   choice   among    these  books  one 
dime! 

Ho!  dealer;  for  its  motto's  sake 
This  scarecrow  from  the  shelf  I  take ; 
Three  starveling  volumes  bound  in  one, 
Its  covers  warping  in  the  sun. 
Methinks  it  hath  a  musty  smell, 
I  like  its  flavor  none  too  well. 
But  Yorick's  brain  was  far  from  dull, 
Though  Hamlet  pah !  'd,  and  dropped  his 
skull. 

Why,  here  comes  rain!  The  sky  ^rowB 

dark, — 
Was  that  the  roll  of  thunder?    Hark ! 
The  shop  aSords  a  safe  retreat, 
A  chair  extends  its  welcome  seat, 
29 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


The  tradesman  has  a  civil  look 
(I've  paid,  impromptu,  for  my  book). 
The  clouds  portend  a  sudden  shower, — 
I'll  read  my  purchase  for  an  hour. 

What  have  I  rescued  from  the  shelf? 

A  Boswell,  writing  out  himself! 

For  though  he  changes  dress  and  name, 

The  man  beneath  is  still  the  same. 

Laughing  or  sad,  by  fits  and  starts, 

One  actor  in  a  dozen  parts, 

And  whatsoe'er  the  mask  may  be. 

The  voice  assures  us.  This  is  he. 

I  say  not  this  to  cry  him  down ; 
I  find  my  Shakespeare  in  his  clown, 
His  rogues  the  selfsame  parent  own ; 
Nay !  Satan  talks  in  Milton's  tone! 
Where'er  the  ocean  inlet  strays, 
The  salt  sea  wave  its  source  betrays ; 
Where'er  the  queen  of  summer  blows. 
She  tells  the  zephyr,  "I'm  the  rose!" 

And  his  is  not  the  playwright's  page ; 
His  table  does  not  ape  the  stage ; 
What  matter  if  the  figures  seen 
Are  only  shadows  on  a  screen, 
He  finds  in  them  his  lurking  thought, 
And  on  their  lips  the  words  he  sought. 
Like  one  who  sits  before  the  keys 
And  plays  a  tune  himself  to  please. 
30 


At  a  Bookstore 


And  was  he  noted  in  his  day? 
Read,  flattered,  honored?  Who  shall  say? 
Poor  wreck  of  time  the  wave  has  cast 
To  find  a  peaceful  shore  at  last, 
Once  glorying  in  thy  gilded  name 
And  freighted  deep  with  hopes  of  fame, 
Thy  leaf  is  moistened  with  a  tear, 
The  first  for  many  a  long,  long  year ! 

For  be  it  more  or  less  of  art 

That  veils  the  lowliest  human  heart 

Where  passion  throbs,  where  friendship 

glows, 
Where  pity's  tender  tribute  flows, 
Where  love  has  lit  its  fragrant  fire, 
And  sorrow  quenched  its  vain  desire, 
For  me  the  altar  is  divine. 
Its  flame,  its  ashes, — all  are  mine ! 

And  thou,  my  brother,  as  I  look 
And  see  thee  pictured  in  thy  book. 
Thy  years  on  every  page  confessed 
In  shadows  lengthening  from  the  west, 
Thy  glance  that  wanders,  as  it  sought 
Some  freshly  opening  flower  of  thought, 
Thy  hopeful  nature,  light  and  free, 
I  start  to  find  myself  in  thee ! 

Come,  vagrant,  outcast,  wretch  forlorn 
In  leather  jerkin  stained  and  torn, 
31 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Whose  talk  has  filled  my  idle  hour 
And  made  me  half  forget  the  shower, 
I'll  do  at  least  as  much  for  you, 
Your  coat  I'll  patch,  your  gilt  renew, 
Read  you — perhaps — some  other  time. 
Not  bad,  my  bargain !    Price  one  dime ! 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


32 


A  Book-Lover's  Apologia 


A  BOOK-LOVER'S  APOLOGIA 

TEMPTATION  lurks  in  every  leaf 

Of  printed  page  or  cover, 
Whene'er  I  haunt  the  bookshops  old, 

Their  treasures  rare  discover ; 
Or  when,  in  choicest  catalogues, 

Among  which  I'm  a  rover. 
My  heart  leaps  up  their  names  to  see — 

For  am  I  not  their  lover? 

I  linger  o'er  each  dainty  page, 

With  loving  touch  and  tender. 
But  find  their  sweet,  seductive  charms 

Soon  call  me  to  surrender. 
Brave  fight,  'twixt  heart  and  my  lean 
purse. 

My  loved  books'  strong  defender! 
More  precious  for  the  valiant  strife 

That  love  is  called  to  render. 

But  when  in  Bibliopolis 

Their  dear  forms  'round  me  cluster, 
While  rank  on  rank  and  file  on  file, 

In  gathering  numbers  muster. 
Think  you,  I  mind  the  sordid  tongues 

That  soulless  talk  and  bluster. 
Or  weigh,  against  their  priceless  worth, 

The  golden  dollar's  luster? 
3  33 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Ah,  no !  since  there  are  drink  and  food 

For  which  the  soul  has  longings, 
And  in  its  daily,  upward  strife, 

Finds  both  in  such  belongings ; 
Dear  books!  Loved  friends,  full  meet 
ye  are 

To  greet  the  earliest  dawnings 
Of  all  the  happiest  days  in  life, 

Of  all  its  brightest  mornings ! 

Hakkiettk  C.  S.  Buckham. 


S4 


The  Land  of  Story  Books 


THE  LAND  OF  STORY  BOOKS 

A  T  evening,  when  the  lamp  is  lit, 

Around  the  fire  my  parents  sit; 
They  sit  at  home  and  talk  and  sing, 
And  do  not  play  at  anything. 

Now  with  my  little  gun  I  crawl 
All  in  the  dark  along  the  wall, 
And  follow  'round  the  forest  track 
Away  behind  the  sofa  back. 

There,  in  the  night,  where  none  can  spy. 
All  in  my  hunter's  camp  I  lie. 
And  play  at  books  that  I  have  read 
Till  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed. 

These  are  the  hills,  these  are  the  woods, 
These  are  the  starry  soUtudes ; 
And  there  the  river  by  whose  brink 
The  roaring  lions  come  to  drink. 

I  see  the  others  far  away 
As  if  in  fire-Ut  camp  they  lay, 
And  I,  like  to  an  Indian  scout. 
Around  their  party  prowled  about. 
35 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


So,  when  my  nurse  comes  in  for  me, 
Home  I  return  across  the  sea, 
And  go  to  bed  with  backward  looks 
At  my  dear  land  of  story-booka. 

RoBEET  Louis  Stevenson. 

'A  Child's  Garden  of  "Verses." 
—Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


The  Bookworm 


THE  BOOKWORM 

\X7E  flung  the  close-kept  casement  wide ; 

The  myriad  atom-play 
Streamed,  vdth  the  mid-day's  glancing 
tide, 
Across  him  as  he  lay ; 
Only  the  unused  summer  gust 
Moved  the  thin  hair  of  Dryasdust 

The  notes  he  writ  were  barely  dry ; 

The  entering  breeze's  breath 
Fluttered  the  fruitless  casuistry, 

Checked  at  the  leaf  where  Death — 
The  final  commentator — thrust 
His  cold  "Here  endeth  Dryasdust." 

O  fool  and  blind !    The  leaf  that  grew, 

The  opening  bud,  the  trees. 
The  face  of  men,  he  nowise  knew, 

Or  careless  turned  from  these 
To  delve,  in  folios'  rust  and  must. 
The  tomb  he  lived  in,  dry  as  dust. 

He  left,  for  mute  Salmasius, 
The  lore  a  child  may  teach, — 

For  saws  of  dead  Libanius, 
The  sound  of  uttered  speech ; 

No  voice  had  pierced  the  sheep-skin  crust 

That  bound  the  heart  of  Dryasdust. 
37 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


And  BO,  with  none  to  close  his  eyes, 
And  none  to  mourn  him  dead, 

He  in  his  dumb  book-Babel  lies 
With  gray  dust  garmented. 

Let  be :  pass  on.    It  is  but  just — 

These  were  thy  gods,  O  Dryasdust ! 

Dig  we  his  grave  where  no  birds  greet,- 

He  loved  no  song  of  birds ; 
Lay  we  his  bones  where  no  men  meet,- 

He  loved  no  spoken  words ; 
He  let  his  human-nature  rust — 
Write  his  Hie  Jacet  in  the  Dust. 

Austin  Dobson. 


38 


From  ^^  Idylls  and  Epigrams" 


FEOM  "IDYLLS  AND  EPIGRAMS" 

/^UR  master,  Mefeager,  he  who  framed 

The  first  Anthology  and  daintiest, 
Mated  each  minstrel  with  a  flower,  and 
named 
For  each  the  blossom  that  beseemed  him 
best. 
'Twas  then  as  now ;  garlands  were  somewhat 
rare. 
Candidates  many :  one  in  a  doleful  strain 
Lamented  thus :  "This  is  a  sad  affair; 

How  shall  I  face  my  publisher  again? 
Lacking  some  emblem  suitable  for  me, 
My  book's  undone;   I  shall  not  sell   a 
copy." 
"Take  courage,  son,"  quoth  Phoebus,  "there 
must  be 
Somewhere  or  other  certainly  a  poppy." 
Richard  Garnett. 


S9 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


BOCCACCIO 

'  *  O^-^  *^^y  upon  a  topmost  shelf 

^^    I  found  a  precious  prize,  indeed, 
Which  father  used  to  read,  himself, 

But  did  not  want  us  boys  to  read  ; 
A  brown  old  book  of  certain  age 

(As  type  and  binding  seemed  to  show) , 
While  on  the  spotted  title-page 

Appeared  the  name  'Boccaccio.' 

"I'd  never  heard  that  name  before, 

But  in  due  season  it  became 
To  him  who  fondly  brooded  o'er 

Those  pages  a  beloved  name ! 
Adown  the  centuries  I  walked 

Mid  pastoral  scenes  and  royal  show ; 
With  seigneurs  and  their  dames  I  talked — 

The  crony  of  Boccaccio. 

"Those   courtly   knights    and    sprightly 
maids. 

Who  really  seemed  disposed  to  shine 
In  gallantries  and  escapades, 

Anon  became  great  friends  of  mine. 
Yet  was  there  sentiment  with  fun. 

And  oftentimes  my  tears  would  flow 
At  some  quaint  tale  of  valor  done, 

As  told  by  my  Boccaccio. 
40 


Boccaccio 


"In  boyish  dreams  I  saw  again 

Bucolic  belles  and  dames  of  court. 
The  princely  youths  and  monkish  men 

Arrayed  for  sacrifice  or  sport ; 
Again  I  heard  the  nightingale 

Sing  as  she  sung  those  years  ago 
In  his  embowered  Italian  vale 

To  my  revered  Boccaccio. 

"And  still  I  love  that  brown  old  book 

I  found  upon  the  topmost  shelf — 
I  love  it  so  I  let  none  look 

Upon  the  treasure  but  myself  1 
And  yet  I  have  a  strapping  boy 

Who  (I  have  every  cause  to  know) 
Would  to  its  full  extent  enjoy 

The  friendship  of  Boccaccio ! 

"But  boys  are,  oh!  so  difierent  now 

From  what  they  were  when  I  was  one ! 
I  fear  my  boy  would  not  know  how 

To  take  that  old  raconteur's  fun ! 
In  your  companionship,  0  friend, 

I  think  it  wise  alone  to  go 
Plucking  the  gracious  fruits  that  bend 

Where  e'er  you  lead,  Boccaccio. 

"So  rest  you  there  upon  the  shelf, 
Clad  in  your  garb  of  faded  brown ; 

Perhaps,  some  time,  my  boy  himself 
Shall  find  you  out  and  take  you  down. 
41 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Then  may  he  feel  the  joy  once  more 
That  thrilled  me,  filled  me  years  ago 

When  reverently  I  brooded  o'er 

The  glories  of  Boccaccio!" 

Eugene  Field. 

"The  Love  Affairs  of  a  BibliomaDiac." 
—Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


A  NEGLECTED  POET  IN  A  LIBRARY 

I  WANDER  on,    I   hunt   through   every 
*      stall— 

I  find  it  not  on  low  or  high  shelf. 
The  book  I  prize  the  most  of  all ; 

"Which  one?"  Why,  the  one  I  wrote  my- 
self. 
"It  may  be  out."    Ah,  happy  thought! 

There  was  a  copy,  I  remind  me. 
Somehow  missed — none  was  ever  bought — 

But  one's  enough  for  fame  to  find  me. 
Adam  Quince. 


42 


Annetta  Jones — Her  Book 


ANNETTA  JONES— HER  BOOK 

A    RARE  old  print  of  Shakespeare — his 

works,  in  boards  of  brown, 
With  quaint  engravings ;  here  and  there  the 

yellowed  leaves  turned  down 
Where  sweet,  love-breathing  Juliet  speaks, 

and  as  I  lean  and  look, 
Traced  in  pale,  faded  ink,    these  words: 

"Annetta  Jones :  Her  Book." 

Now,  this  old  print  of  Shakespeare  I  prize, 

because  'tis  rare — 
The  gem  of  all  my  library,  in  dust  and  glory 

there ; 
I  marvel  much  at  Hamlet's  ghost,  and  Ban- 

quo's  pictured  bones. 
But  who — ye  gods  of  ancient  days,  was  this 

"Annetta  Jones"  ? 

I  think  I've  heard  that   name   before, — 
Jones? — Jones? — but  that  "Annetta," 

With  odd  embroidery  around  the  first  and 
final  letter, 

Is  Bweet  and  quaint    .    .     .    She  was  no 
saint,  prim — grim !  for  I  discover 

By  these  sublime,  marked  sentences,  An- 
netta had  a  lover ! 
43 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


And  I  believe  her  eyes  were  blue — her  lips 

as  cherries  red, 
And  many  a  shy,  sweet  kies  they  knew,  and 

tender  words  they  said ; 
And  from  her  powdered  brows  gold  hair 

fell  cloud-like— soft  and  sweet, 
Down-streaming,  gleaming,  dreaming  in  her 

silver-slippered  feet ! 

She  lived — she  loved — ^was  wedded ;  the  ro- 
mance of  her  life 

Perchance  was  toned  a  trifle  when  her  lover 
called  her  "wife;" 

But  what  a  glorious  fate  is  hers !  for  as  I 
lean  and  look 

Her  name  still  shines  with  Shakespeare's : 
"Annetta  Jones:  Her  Book." 

Fkank  L.  Stanton. 


44 


A  Legend  of  the  Strand 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  STRAND 

''TIS  said  an  author  who  had  starved  to 

*     death 
Went  walking,  some  years  after  he  had  lost 

his  breath, 
In  spirit  up  Fleet  Street,  then  down  the 

Strand, 
And  found  himself   before    a   bookman's 

stand. 
"What's  this?"  he  mused,  as  in  his  hand 
A  book 
He  took 
"Dear  me,  my  verse  I"  he  cried,  and  kissed 

the  tome. 
"You  killed  me — cost  me  hearth  and  home 
To  publish  you  I  spent 
My  every  cent. 
No  man  would  buy. 
And  I 

Was  soon  a  shadow  of  my  former  self. 
Whilst  you  lay  snugly  on  my  dusty  shelf. 
Heighol"  he  sighed, 
"Thou  wert  my  pride. 
And  ruin."    Quoth  the  book :    "Not  so ! 
You  died  too  soon  to  really  know. 
I  have  become 

A  rarity,  and  worth  a  wondrous  sum. 
45 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


And  through  me  now 

You  wear  the  laurel  on  your  brow!" 

E'en  as  the  volume  spake 

A  mortal  came,  the  little  book  did  take, 

And  as  the  spirit  watched  him  from  the 

shade. 
Some  twenty  pounds  for  it  he  paid. 
"Egad!"  the  author  cried,  as  back  he  sped 
To  Hades.    "I  have  on  my  head 
Enough  of  hay  entwined  to  feed  a  horse  1 
I'm  proud  of  it — oh  yes,  I  am,  of  course — 
But  what  a  shame  to  decorate 
An  author's  pate 

And  leave  his  stomach  to  disintegrate!" 
John  Kbndrick  Bangs. 


46 


In  the  Library 


IN  THE  LIBRARY 

"THE  room  was  given  to  firegleams  and  to 
night, 
And  as  I  mused,  lo !  where  the  books  had 
been 
Were  souls  of  books,  alive,  and  on  my  eight 
Dawned  growing  day,  in  midst  whereof 
was  seen. 
With  sad  stem  face,  eyes  pitying,  vesture 

white, 
The  Lord  of  Souls,  who,  dying,  won  Life's 

fight. 
Then  all  the  book-souls  bowed  before  the 

bright 
Surrounding  glory  of  the  Lord  of  Light. 

Then,  one  by  one.  He  touched  them  on  the 

side. 
And  some  to  scented  ashes  sank  and  died ; 
Some  gave  the  semblance  of  a  human 
heart. 
Some  like  a  working  hand  of  help  did  show, 
Some  changed  to  lamps  tipped  with  a  stead- 
fast glow. 
One  only  of  its  Lord  was  counterpart. 
H.  V.  S.  Herbebt. 


47 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


TO  CALIPH  OMAR 

/^MAR,  who  burned  (if  thou  didst  bum) 
The  Alexandrian  tomes, 

I  would  erect  to  thee  an  um 

Beneath  Sophia's  domes. 

Would  that  thy  exemplary  torch 

Might  bravely  blaze  again, 

And  many  manufactories  scorch 
Of  book-inditing  men ! 

Especially  I'd  have  thee  choke 

Law  libraries  in  sheep, 
With  fire  derived  from  ancient  Coke, 

And  sink  in  ashes  deep. 

Destroy  the  sheep — don't  save  my  own — 

I  weary  to  the  cram, 
The  misplaced  diligence  I've  shown — 

But  kindly  spare  my  Lamb. 

And  spare,  oh,  spare  this  suppliant  book 
Against  a  time  of  need ; 

Hide  it  away  in  humble  nook 
To  serve  for  legal  seed. 

The  man  who  writes  but  hundred  pages 
Wliere  thousands  went  before, 
Deserves  the  thanks  of  weary  sages, 
And  Omar  should  adore. 

Irving  Bbowne. 
48 


These  Books  of  Mine 


THESE  BOOKS  OF  MINE 

IV/I Y  garden  aboundeth  in  pleasant  nooks 

And  fragrance  is  over  it  all ; 
For  sweet  is  the  smell  of  my  old,  old  books 
In  their  places  against  the  wall. 

Here  is  a  folio  that's  grim  with  age 
And  yellow  and  green  with  mold ; 

There's  the  breath  of  the  sea  on  every  page 
And  the  hint  of  a  stanch  ship's  hold. 

And  here  is  a  treasure  from  France  la  belle 

Exhaleth  a  faint  perfume 
Of  wedded  Uly  and  asphodel 

In  a  gardtai  of  song  abloom. 

And  this  wee  little  book  of  Puritan  mien 

And  rude,  conspicuous  print 
Hath  the  Yankee  flavor  of  wintergreen, 

Or,  may  be,  of  peppermint. 

In  Walton  the  brooks  a-babbling  tell 
Where  the  cheery  daisy  grows. 

And  where  in  meadow  or  woodland  dwell 
The  buttercup  and  the  rose. 

But  best  beloved  of  books,  I  ween. 
Are  those  which  one  perceives 

Are  hallowed  by  ashes  dropped  between 
The  yellow,  well-thumbed  leaves. 
4  49 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


For  it's  here  a  laugh  and  it's  there  a  tear, 
Till  the  treasured  book  is  read ; 

And  the  ashes  betwixt  the  pages  here 
Tell  us  of  one  long  dead. 

But  the  gracious  presence  reappears 

As  we  read  the  book  again, 
And  the  fragrance  of  precious,  distant  years 

Filleth  the  hearts  of  men. 

Come,  pluck  with  me  in  my  garden  nooks 
The  posies  that  bloom  for  all ; 

Oh,  sweet  is  the  smell  of  my  old,  old  books 

In  their  places  against  the  wall ! 

EuGKNK  Field. 

"Tlie  Love  Affairs  of  a  Bibliomaniac." 
—Charles  Soribner's  Sons. 


50 


The  Truth  About  Horace 


THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  HORACE 

IT  is  very  aggravating 

To  hear  the  solemn  prating 
Of  the  fossils  who  are  stating 

That  old  Horace  was  a  prude ; 
When  we  know  that  with  the  ladies 
He  was  always  raising  Hades, 
And  with  many  an  escapade  his 

Best  productions  are  imbued. 

There's  really  not  much  harm  in  a 
Large  number  of  his  carmina, 
But  these  people  find  alarm  in  a 

Few  records  of  his  acta ; 
So  they'd  squelch  the  muse  caloric, 
And  to  students  sophomoric 
They'd  present  as  metaphoric 

What  old  Horace  meant  for  facts. 

We  have  always  thought  'em  lazy ; 
Now  we  adjudge  'em  crazy ! 
Why,  Horace  was  a  daisy 

That  was  very  much  alive ! 
And  the  wisest  of  us  know  him 
As  his  Lydia  verses  show  him — 
Go,  read  the  virile  poem — 

It  is  No.  25. 
51 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


He  was  a  very  owl,  sir, 

And  starting  out  to  prowl,  sir, 

You  bet  he  made  Rome  howl,  sir, 

Until  he  filled  his  date ; 
"With  a  massic-laden  ditty 
And  a  classic  maiden  pretty 
He  painted  up  the  city, 

And  Maecenas  paid  the  freight. 

Eugene  Field. 

"A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse." 
—Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


THE  BOOK-WORMS 

•THROUGH  and  through  the  inspired 
leaves, 
Ye  maggots,  make  your  windings ; 
But,  oh,  respect  his  lordship's  taste. 
And  spare  the  golden  bindings ! 

RoBEBT  Burns. 


52 


The  Student 


THE  STUDENT 


A  YOUTH  was  there,  of  quiet  ways, 
A  student  of  old  books  and  days. 
To  whom  all  tongues    and  lands  were 

known 
And  yet  a  lover  of  his  own ; 
With  many  a  social  virtue  graced, 
And  yet  a  friend  of  solitude ; 
A  man  of  such  a  genial  mood 
The  heart  of  all  things  he  embraced, 
And  yet  of  such  fastidious  taste, 

He  never  found  the  best  too  good. 
Books  were  his  passion  and  delight, 
And  in  his  upper  room  at  home 
Stood  many  a  rare  and  sumptuous 
tome, 
In  vellum  bound,  with  gold  bedight. 
Great  volumes  garmented  in  white, 
Recalling  Florence,  Pisa,  Rome. 
He  loved  the  twilight  that  surrounds 
The  border-land  of  old  romance ; 
Where   glitter    hauberk,    helm    and 
lance. 
And  banner  waves,  and  trumpet  sounds, 

And  ladies  ride  with  hawk  on  wrist. 
And  mighty  warriors  sweep  along, 
Magnified  by  the  purple  mist. 
The  dusk  of  centuries  and  of  song. 
63 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


The  chronicles  of  Charlemagne, 
Of  Merlin  and  the  Mort  d'  Arthure, 

Mingled  together  in  his  brain 
With  tales  of  Flores  and  Blanchefleur, 

Sir  Ferumbras,  Sir  Eglamour, 

Sir  Launcelot,  Sir  Morgadour, 
Sir  Guy,  Sir  Bevis,  Sir  Gawain, 

Hbnby  Wadswokxh  Lonqfellow. 


LINES  FEE  ISAAC  BRAD  WELL,  OF  IN- 
DANOPLIS,  IND.,  COUNTY- 
SEAT  OF  MAEION 

[Writ  on  the  flyleaf  of  a  volume  of  the  author's 
poems  that  come  in  one  of  gittin'  burnt  up  in  the 
great  Bowen-Merrill's  fire  of  March  17, 1890.] 

T^HROUGH  fire  and  flood  this  book 

has  passed. — 
Fer  what? — I  hardly  dare  to  ast — 
Less'n  it's  still  to  pamper  me 
With  extry  food  fer  vanity ; — 
Fer,  sence  it 's  fell  in  hands  as  true 
As  yourn  is — and  a  Hoosier  too, — 
I'm  prouder  of  the  book,  I  jing ! 
Than  'fore  they  tried  to  burn  the  thing ! 
James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


54 


In  a  Library 


IN  A  LIBRARY 

•THE   fading   firelight   glimmers   on  the 

shelves, 
The  gilded  titles  dance  like  tricksy  elves, 
I    gaze    on    quartos    dull,    and    "dumpy 

twelves." — 

I  am  alone. 
The  silence  holds  a  faint  and   grewsome 

dread, 
A  sense  of  spirits  hovering  o'er  my  head. 
I  really  think  it's  time  to  go  to  bed  I 
Was  that  a  moan? 

Speaks  Shakespeare's  bust :  "And  dost  thou 
read  my  book?" 

He  gazes  on  me  with  a  fearful  look. 

My  face  grows  pale;  both  patent-leathers 
shook 

As  I  reply : 

"Immortal  Bard,  I've  done  my  level  best. 

Youf  plays  are  fine.    But  it  must  be  con- 
fessed. 

That  for  the  Sonnets  I  have  found  no  zest, 
And  moments  fly." 

Then  sad-mouthed  Milton  must  thrust  in  an 

oar: 
"List,  pallid  creature,  I've  a  question  more. 
Art  thou  of  those  dull  clods  who  find  a  bore 
'Our  Mother  Eve?' " 
5S 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


I  tried  to  smile.    What  could  a  fellow  do? 
(Suppose  the  question  had  been  put  to  you?) 
I  gently  said :  "I've  read  a  Book  or  two, 
I  do  believe," 

But  Homer  spoke  (I  wished  that  he  would 
nod), 

And  hke  some  teacher  grim  with  upraised 
rod. 

Who  o'er  a  shrinking  urchin  rides  rough- 
shod, 

Asked,  "What  of  me?" 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  my  trembling  lips  ex- 
claim, 

"I  yield  to  none  in  reverence  to  thy  name, 

But  as  for  Greek,  I  am  not  in  the  game. 
And  so  you  see — " 

As  thus  I  stammered,  lo,   another   voice 

broke  in, 
And  eke  Dan  Chaucer  did  at  me  begin : 
"The  Canterbury  Tales?"  Said  I,  with  grin, 

"Whanne  that  Aprille— " 
"Alas!"  quoth  Chaucer,  "that  I  wrote  that 

line, 
Naught  else  remains  of  all  those  poems  of 

mine. 
What  dost  thou  read,"  he  asked,  "what  au- 
thors shine. 

What  scribblers  silly?" 
56 


In  a  Library 


"I  read — the  papers,"  spoke  I,  soft  and  low, 

"The  magazines ;  a  modem  tale  or  so, 

For  really  yoil  old   chaps    are— dull,  you 

know. 

There,  now  I've  said  it ! 
I  take  for  granted   you    great  bards  are 

such: 
You  sell  well — gad !  you  never  brought  so 

much! 
But  as  for  wading  through  all  your  high 

Dutch 

To  say  I've  read  it, 

That's  different,  quite.    And  I  would  rather 

be 
A  man  who  reads  the  papers.    Now,  that's 

me — 
A  regular  Philistine,  as  you  see. 
I  hate  all  culture  1" 
At  once  those  busts  came  tumbling  from  on 

high, 
With  him  of  Avon  aiming  at  my  eye — 
So  ends  my  nightmare,  and  I  wake  in  cry 
like— say,  a  vulture. 

TuDOE  Jkkks. 


m 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


TWO  GREEKS 
[Written  in  Miss  Thomas'  "A  Winter  Swallow."] 

OERE  is  the  shelf  I  oftenest  seek, 

And  here  the  book  beloved  of  old, — 
The  songs  of  him  whose  soul  was  Greek, 
"Whose  speech  was  English  of  pure  gold. 

No  other  book,  it  seemed  to  me, 
Could  share  the  little  shelf  with  Keats ; 

For  who,  save  him,  had  crossed  the  sea 
To  steal  from  Attic  bees  their  sweets? 

But  now  another  English  tongue 
Has  caught  the  trick  of  Grecian  speech ; 

Another  hand  has  plucked  and  flung 
The  golden  apples  within  reach ! 

To-night  the  alcove's  light  bums  low ; 

Pan's  piping  notes  ring  bUthe  and  clear, 
While,  with  JSgean's  ebb  and  flow, 

Antigone's  brave  voice  I  hear. 

Mbbedith  Nicholson. 


68 


A  Book-Lover's  Panegyric 


A  BOOK-LOVER'S  PANEGYRIC 


f  ET  old  Petrarca  sing  of  love, 

Its  passion  and  its  bliss, 
And  in  his  sugared  sonnets  tell 

The  rapture  of  a  kiss ! 
Let  Bacchanalian  votaries 

Exulting  praise  their  wine — 
But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  praise 

The  praise  of  books  be  mine  1 


A  health  to  books !  come,  Comrades  all, 

And  pledge  me  this  full  cup ; 
Raise  high  the  foaming  goblets'  brim 

And  drain  the  liquor  up ! 
Come,  quafi  this  nectarean  bowl, 

The  brim  raised  to  your  lips, 
So  this  enthusiastic  health 

All  others  shall  eclipse  1 


A  health  to  books !  a  royal  toast, 
And  honored  by  a  few, 

But  as  the  march  of  time  goes  on 
The  world  shall  drink  it  too  I 
69 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Its  men  and  women  shall  arise, 

And  sing  in  zealous  strain 
Their  song  of  praise,  and  goblets  raise 

To  drink  it  o'er  again ! 

IV 

So  here's  to  books,  to  noble  books. 

Our  pleasure  and  our  boast ; 
Arise,  ye  denizens  of  earth. 

To  honor  this  fair  toast ! 
Then  here's  to  books,  immortal  books 

Light  of  our  nights  and  days, — 
Stand  up,  O  Universe,  and  chant 

A  psean  in  their  praise ! 


And,  once  again,  a  health  to  books. 

Your  goblets  all  refill ; 
When  all  things  mortal  are  decayed 

May  books  be  with  us  still ! 
Then  quaff  a  toast  to  glorious  books 

In  cups  of  ruby  wine, 
And  while  the  world  extols  things  base 

The  praise  of  books  be  mine ! 

Cyril  M.  Drew. 


60 


Bookman's  Catch 


BOOKMAN'S  CATCH 

•yilE  Bookman  he's  a  humming-bird — 
His  feasts  are  honey-flne, — 
(With  hi  1  hilloo! 
And  clover-dew 
And  roses  lush  and  rare ! ) 
Hie  roses  are  the  phrase  and  word 
Of  olden  tomes  divine ; 
(With  hi!  and  ho  I 
And  pinks  ablow 
And  posies  everywhere ! ) 
The  Bookman  he's  a  humming-bird, — 

He  steals  from  song  to  song — 
He  scents  the  ripest-blooming  rhyme, 

And  takes  his  heart  along 
And  sacks  all  sweets  of  bursting  verse 
And  ballads,  throng  on  throng. 
(With  ho !  and  hey ! 
And  brook  and  brae. 
And  brinks  of  shade  and  shine!) 

A  humming-bird  the  Bookman  is — 
Though  cumbrous,  gray  and  grim, — 
(With  hi!  hilloo! 
And  honey -dew 
And  odors  musty-rare!) 
He  bends  him  o'er  that  page  of  his 
As  o'er  the  rose's  rim. 
61 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


(With  hi!  and  hoi 
And  pinks  aglow 
And  rosea  everywhere!) 
Ay,  he's  the  featest  humming-bird, — 

On  airiest  of  wings 
He  poises  pendent  o'er  the  poem 

That  blossoms  as  it  sings — 

God  friend  him  as  he  dips  his  beak 

In  such  delicious  things ! 

(With  ho!  and  hey! 

And  world  away 

And  only  dreams  for  him!) 

Jamks  Whitcomb  Rilht. 


TRIOLET  TO  HER  HUSBAND 

[Rendered  intx)  English  by  Andrew  Lang.] 

DOOKS  rule  thy  mind,  so  let  it  be ! 

Thy  heart  is  mine,  and  mine  alone. 
What  more  can  I  require  of  thee? 

Books  rule  thy  mind,  so  let  it  be  I 
Contented  when  thy  bliss  I  see, 

I  wish  a  world  of  books  thine  own. 
Books  rule  thy  mind,  so  let  it  be ! 
Thy  heart  is  mine,  and  mine  alone. 
F.  Fertiault. 


Old  Books  Are  Best 


OLD  BOOKS  ARE  BEST 
To  J.  H.  P, 

/^LD  books  are  best!  With  what  delight 
^^     Does  "Faithome  fecit"  greet  our  eight 
On  frontispiece  or  title-page 
Of  that  old  time,  when  on  the  stage 
"Sweet  Nell"  set  "Rowley's"  heart  aUght! 

And  you,  O  Friend,  to  whom  I  write, 
Must  not  deny,  e'en  though  you  might, 
Through  fear  of  modem  pirate's  rage, 
Old  books  are  best. 

What  though  the  prints  be  not  so  bright, 
The  paper  dark,  the  binding  slight? 
Our  author,  be  he  dull  or  sage, 
Returning  from  that  distant  age 
So  lives  again,  we  say  of  right: 
Old  books  are  best. 

Bkvebly  Chbw. 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


SONNET  77 

T*!!  Y  glass  will  show  thee  how  thy  beauties 

wear, 
Thy  dial  how  thy  precious  minutes  waste ; 
The  vacant  leaves  thy  mind's  imprint  will 

bear, 
And  of  this  book  this  learning  mayst  thou 

taste. 
The  wrinkles  which  thy  glass  will  truly  show 
Of  mouthed  graves  will  give  thee  memory ; 
Thou  by  thy  dial's  shady  stealth  mayst  know 
Time's  thievish  progress  to  eternity. 
Look,  what  thy  memory  can  not  contain 
Commit  to  these  waste  blanks,  and  thou 

shalt  find 
Those  children  nursed,  delivered  from  thy 

brain. 
To  take  a  new  acquaintance  of  thy  mind. 
These  ofiices,  so  oft  as  thou  wilt  look. 
Shall  profit  thee  and  much  enrich  thy 
book. 

Shakespeaee. 


64 


The  Scholar  and  His  Books 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  BOOKS 

A  CLERK  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also, 
That  unto  logik  hadde  longe  i-go. 
Al  BO  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  was  not  right  fat,  I  undertake ; 
But  Lokede  holwe,  and  therto  soburly. 
Ful  thredbare  was  his  overest  courtepy, 
For  he  hadde  nought  geten  him  yit  a  bene- 
fice, 
Ne  was  not  worthy  to  haven  an  office. 
For  him  was  lever  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bookes,  cloth'd  in  bleak  and  reed, 
Of  Aristotil,  and  of  his  philosophie, 
Then  robus  riche,  or  fithul,  or  sawtrie. 
But  al  though  he  were  a  philosophre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litul  gold  in  cof  re ; 
But  al  that  he  might  of  his  frendes  hente, 
On  bookes  and  his  lemyng  he  it  spente. 
And  busily  gan  for  the  soules  pray 
Of  hem  that  gaf  him  wherwith  to  scolay. 
And  studie  took  he  most  cure  and  heede. 
Not  oo  word  spak  he   more   than  was 

neede ; 
Al  that  he  spak  it  was  of  heye  prudence, 
And  schort  and  quyk,  &  ful  of  gret  sen- 
tence. 
5  65 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Sownynge    in    moral   manere   was   his 

fipeche, 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly 

teche. 

Chaucbk:  "The  Peologue." 


HOW  TO  READ  ME. 

"TO  turn  my  volumes  o'er  nor  find 

(Sweet  unsuspicious  friend !) 
Some  vestige  of  an  erring  mind 

To  chide  or  discommend, 
Believe  that  all  were  lov'd  like  you 

With  love  from  blame  exempt, 
Believe  that  all  my  griefs  were  true 
And  all  my  joys  but  dreamt. 

Walter  Savage  Landob. 


Book  Brotherhood 


BOOK  BROTHERHOOD 

LJERE  are  my  companions  sleeping 
Tranquilly  in  each  closed  book, 
Till  a  spirit  in  me  leaping 

From  its  bondage  dares  to  look. 

Here  are  those  who  felt  deep  heart-throes 

In  the  morning  of  the  earth, 
All  untutored,  as  the  wind  blows, 

Giving  human  song  its  birth ; 
Diverse  men  in  diverse  races 

Hearing,  answering  some  faint  call, 
Finding  links  and  losing  traces 

Where  Oblivion  drops  its  pall ; 
From  chaotic  dreams  evolving 

Thought   once  breathed   on   speaking 
stone. 
Whose  far-echoes  now  are  solving 

Problems  in  Thought's  later  zone ; 
Disputants  of  soul  and  matter — 

God  the  Force,  or  Force  the  God — 
As  the  autumn  winds  that  scatter 

Dry  leaves  on  a  dewy  sod ; 
So  departing,  coming  ever 
With  a  new-inspired  endeavor, 
Here  as  brothers  rest  together. 
67 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Books  that  keep  alive  the  ages 

On  my  shelves  abide  in  peace, 
Truth  enshrined  within  their  pages 

Waiting  for  a  full  release ; 
Not  alone  in  one  tome  dwelling, 

But  in  all,  perchance,  a  gleam 
In  the  dark,  some  dark  dispelling 

Of  humanity's  strange  dream. 
Old  true  friends  in  welcome  places 

Greet  me  in  each  varying  mood. 
And  new  friends  with  fresh  young  faces 

Woo  with  keen  solicitude ; 
Ancient  discords  merging  slowly 

Into  one  harmonious  whole, 
Time  absorbing  high  or  lowly 

In  the  majesty  of  soul. 

Mighty  dead,  but  mightier  living 

Spirit  of  the  brain  and  pen, 
Founts  of  Thought  for  ever  giving 

Impetus  to  yearning  men, 
So  departing,  coming  ever 
With  a  new-inspired  endeavor. 
Here  as  brothers  rest  together, 

Edwakd  Foskbtt. 


68 


In  a  Library 


IN  A  LIBRAEY 


A  PRECIOUS  moldering  pleasure  'tis 

To  meet  an  antique  book, 
In  just  the  dress  his  century  wore ; 
A  privilege,  I  think, 

His  venerable  hand  to  take, 
And  warming  in  our  own, 

A  passage  back,  or  two,  to  make 
To  times  when  he  was  young. 

His  quaint  opinions  to  inspect, 

His  knowledge  to  unfold 
On  what  concerns  our  mutual  mind, 

The  literature  of  old : 


What  interested  scholars  most. 
What  competitions  ran 

When  Plato  was  a  certainty 
And  Sophocles  a  man. 

When  Sappho  was  a  living  girl. 

And  Beatrice  wore 
The  gown  that  Dante  deified. 

Facts,  centuries  before. 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


He  traverses  familiar, 

As  one  sliould  come  to  town 
And  tell  you  all  your  dreams  were  true : 

He  lived  where  dreams  were  sown. 

His  presence  is  enchantment, 

You  beg  him  not  to  go ; 
Hie  volumes  shake  their  vellum  heads 

And  tantalize,  just  so. 

Emily  Dickinson. 


70 


My  Books 


MY  BOOKS 

•THESE  are  my  books — a  Burton  old, 
A  Lamb,  arrayed  against  the  cold ; 

In  polished  dress  of  red  and  blue, 

A  rare  old  Elzevir  or  two, 
And  Johnson,  clothed  in  green  and  gold. 

A  Pope,  in  gilded  calf,  I  sold 
To  buy  a  Sterne,  of  worth  untold, 
To  cry,  as  bibliomaniacs  do, 
"  These  are  my. books ! " 

What  though  a  Fate  unkind  hath  doled 
But  favors  few  to  me,  yet  bold 
My  little  wealth  abroad  I  strew 
To  purchase  acquisitions  new. 
And  say,  by  love  of  them  controlled, 
"These  are  my  books  1 " 

Nathan  M.  Lkvt. 


71 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


MY  BOOKS 

MY  books,  my  books,  my  kingdom  mine ! 
I  have  no  need  for  love  to  pine ; 
I  have  no  mistress  but  my  books. 
They  never  give  me  frowning  looks, 
Nor  mock  my  heart  when  hopes  decline. 
But  women  change  sans  cause  or  sign. 
And  so  I  court  the  Muses  Nine 

In  my  poor  den,  or  shady  nooks, 
My  books,  my  books. 

I  love  to  see  them  line  on  line, 
In  shabby  coat  or  superfine. 

They  are  such  friends— from  bards  to 

cooks. 
And  speak  with  joy  of  babbling  brooks. 
With  peaceful  woods  that  ever  shine. 
Fill  me  up  with  Lethean  wine. 
My  books,  my  books ! 

S.  J.  Adair  Fitz-Gekald. 


72 


The  Books  I  Ought  to  Read 


THE  BOOKS  I  OUGHT  TO  EEAD 

/^N  dusty  shelves  in  serried  rows  they 
stand, 
Reproachful  thousands,  quaint  and  grave 
and  great ; 
My  guilty  conscience  feels  their  mute  com- 
mand, 
Yet  day  by  day — they  wait. 

More  formidable  grow  their  ranks  each  year, 
Their  very  names  I  can  not  call  to  mind ; 

A  friend  amid  this  chaos  would,  I  fear. 
Be  very  hard  to  find. 

But  to  a  comer  shelf,  by  most  forgot, 

I  steal,  and  give    reproach  no  further 
heed 
'Mid  boon  companions  all — yet  these  are  not 
The  books  I  ought  to  read. 

Abbie  Farwell  Brown. 


73 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


OF  MY  BOOKS 

A  ROUND  the  narrow  circuit  of  the  room 
Breast-high  the  books  I  love  range  file 
on  file ; 
And  when,  day-weary,  I  would  rest  awhile, 
As  once  again  slow  falls  the  gathering 
gloom 
Upon  the  world,  I  love  to  pass  my  hand 
Along  their  serried  ranks,  and  silent  stand 
In   breathless   heark'ning   to   their  silent 

speech. 
With  rev 'rent  hand  I  touch  the  back  of  each 
Of  these  my  books.  How  much  of  their  dear 
selves — 
The  hand  that  held  the  pen,  the  brain  that 

wrought 
The  subtle  fancies  on  these  pages  caught — 
Have  men  immortal  left  upon  my  shelves ! 

And  then  sometimes  a  sudden  chill  doth 

strike 

My  heart  with  very  horror,  and  I  shrink 

Away  from  their  dull  touch,  shudd'ring  to 

think 

How  much  of  human  life  that,  vampire-like, 


74 


Of  My  Books 


These   books   have  sucked  beneath  their 
leathern  wings, 
How  brains  have  broken  and  frail  bodies 
bent 
To  feed  with  human  blood  these  bloodless 
things. 
In  this  thin  book  of  poesy  is  pent 
A  beautiful  young  life;— imperial  Rome 
Holds  what  was  mortal  of  it.    Then  I  see, 
All  withered  at  the  top,  a  noble  tree 
Here  in  the  scathing  scorn  of  this  dark  tome. 
By  this  long  hne  of  books  that  mutely  stands 
A  master-mind  was  wrecked,  so  that  in 

years 
He  sat  a  poor  old  man  in  doting  tears. 
Because  his  dogs  in  pity  Ucked  his  hands. 

But   then   again   there   comes   a   rushing 
thought, 
And  to  my  living  books  my  arms  I  raise 
In  loving  fellowship  of  life  and  breath, 
And,  hke  poor  Southey  when  his  brain  was 
naught 
Save  a  pale  glimmering  light  of  other  days, 
I  touch  them  tenderly.    My  spirit  saith : 
"Who  gave  their  lives  for  these  can  know 
no  death. 


75 


Book  Lovers'  V'erse 


For  I  have  walked  with  them  in  mortal  guise 

Through  woodland  ways  and  swarming 

city  streets ; 

Yea,  have  I  met  the  gaze  of  Shelley's  eyes, 

And   in  'Hyperion'  kissed  the  lips  of 

Keats." 

Chables  Washington  Colshan. 


7« 


Personal  Talk 


PERSONAL  TALK 

AGINGS  have  we,— and  as  far  as  we  can  go 
We  may  find  pleasure:  wilderness 
and  wood, 
Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that 
mood 
Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 
Dreams,    books,    are   each   a  world;  and 
books,  we  know. 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and 

good: 
'Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh 
and  blood. 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There  find  I  personal  themes,  a  plenteous 
store, 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am, 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear ; 
Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear, — 

The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor ; 
And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white 
Lamb. 

William  Wokdswobth. 


77 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


"10  GROLIERII  ET  AMI-CORUM" 

TF  borrowed   books   but   home   returned 

again  1 
Or  did  they  from  their  wandering  escape 
In  pristine  grace,  with  no  deflow'ring  stain, 
No  dog's-eared  leaf,  no  binding  all  agape! 
Against  my  wish  my  action  thus  I  shape : 
Like  all  true  hearts,  to  share  my  treasures 

fain, 
I'd  gladly  lend— but  parting's  sad  sweet 

pain. 
Ah,  Grolier!  Would  thy  motto  I  might  ape  I 

No  faint  half -heart,  no  grudging  spirit  thine : 
No  boastful  vaunt,  to  further  private  ends, 
The  never-dying,  gold-emblazoned  line 
That  tells  the  world  thy  books  were  for  thy 
friends. 

But  yet,  methinks,  to  cynic  eyes  it  looks 

As  though  thy  friends  out-number§d  thy 

books. 

Halkett  Losd. 


78 


The  Poems  Here  at  Home 


THE  POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME 

'THE  Poems  here  at  Home !— Who'll  write 

them  down, 
Jes  as  they  air — in  country  and  in  Town? — 
Sowed  thick  as  clods  is  'crost  the  fields  and 

lanes 
Er  theee-'ere  little  hop-toads  when  it  rains ! — 
Who'll  "  voice  "  'em?  as  I  heerd  a  feller  say 
'At  speechified  on  Freedom,  t'other  day, 
And  soared  the  Eagle  tel,  it  'peared  to  me, 
She  wasn't  bigger'n  a  bumblebee ! 

Who'll  sort  'em  out  and  set  'em  down,  says  I, 
'At's  got  a  stiddy  hand  enough  to  try 
To  do  'em  jestice  'thout  a-foolin'  some, 
And  headin'  facts  oS  when  they  want  to 

come? — 
Who's  got  the  lovin'  eye,  and  heart,  and 

brain 
To  recko'nize  'at  nothin'  's  made  in  vain — 
'At  the  Good  Bein'  made  the  bees  and  birds 
And  brutes  first  choice,  and  us-folks  after- 
wards? 

What  We  want,  as  I  sense  it,  in  the  line 
O'  poetry  is  somepin'  Yours  and  Mine— 
Somepin'  with  live-stock  in  it,  and  outdoors, 
And  old  creek-bottoms,  snags,  and  syca- 
mores : 

79 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Putt  weeds  in — pizen-vines,  and  underbreeh, 
As  well  as  Johnny-jump-ups,  all  so  fresh 
And  eassy-like ! — and  groun'-squir'ls, — yes, 

and  "We," 
As  sayin'  is, — "  We,  Us  and  Company !  " 

Putt  in  old  Nature's  sermonts,— them's  the 

best, — 
And  'casionly  hang  up  a  hornets'  nest 
'At  boys  'at's  run  away  from  school  can  git 
At  handy -like — and  let  'em  tackle  it ! 
Let  us  be  wrought  on,  of  a  truth  to  feel 
Our  proneness  fer  to  hurt  more  than  we  heal, 
In  ministratin'  to  our  vain  delights— 
Fergittin'  even  insec's  has  their  rights ! 

No  "Ladies'  Amaranth,"  ner  "Treasury" 

book — 
Ner    "Night   Thoughts,"    nuther — ner  no 

"  Lally  Eook'  "  ! 
We  want  some  poetry  'at's  to  Our  taste, 
Made  out  'o  truck  'at's  jes  a-goin'  to  waste 
'Cause  smart  folks  thinks  it's  altogetlier  too 
Outrageous  common—'ceptfor  me  and  you ! — 
Which  goes  to  argy,  all  sich  poetry 
Is  'bliged  to  rest  its  hopes  on  You  and  Me. 
James  Whitcomb  Eiley. 


80 


In  a  Library 


IN  A  LIBRARY 

•TREAD  softly  here,  as  ye  would  tread 

In  presence  of  the  honored  dead, 
With  reverent  step  and  low-bowed  head. 


Speak  low — as  low  as  ye  would  speak 
Before  some  saint  of  grandeur  meek, 
Whose  favor  ye  would  humbly  seek. 

Within  these  walls  the  very  air 
Seems  weighted  with  a  fragrance  rare, 
Like  incense  burned  at  ev'ning  prayer. 

Here  may  we  sit  and  converse  hold 
With  those  whose  names  in  ages  old 
Were  in  the  book  of  fame  enrolled. 

Here  under  poet's  power  intense 
We  leave  this  world  of  sordid  sense, 
Where  mortals  strive  with  problems  dense, 

And  mount  to  realms  where  fancy,  free, 
Above  our  poor  humanity. 
Roams  in  a  joyous  ecstasy. 

Of  if  through  history's  maze  we  tread, 
The  hero,  patriot,  long  since  dead, 
Whose  great  heart  for  his  country  bled, 
6  81 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Seems  once  again  to  work  and  fight, 
In  superstition's  darkest  night, 
For  God,  his  fellows,  and  the  right. 

Enough !  mere  words  can  never  tell 
The  influence  of  the  grateful  spell 
Which  seems  among  these  books  to  dwell. 
Alice  Sawtelle  Kandall. 


My  Books 


MY  BOOKS 

/^N  level  lines  of  woodwork  stand 

My  books  obedient  to  my  hand ; 
And  Caesar  pale  against  the  wall 
Smiles  sternly  Roman  over  all. 
Within  the  four  walls  of  this  room 
Life  finds  its  prison,  youth  its  tomb : 
For  here  the  minds  of  other  men 
Prompt  and  deride  the  laboring  pen ; 
And  here  the  wisdom  of  the  wise 
Dances  like  motes  before  the  eyes. 
Outside,  the  great  world  spins  its  way, 
Here  studious  night  dogs  studious  day. 
A  mighty  store  of  dusty  books. 
Little  and  great,  fill  all  the  nooks, 
And  line  the  walls  from  roof  to  floor ; 
And  I  who  read  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Am  I  much  wiser  than  of  old. 
When  sunlight  leaped  hke  living  gold 
Into  my  boyhood's  heart,  on  fire 
With  fervid  hope  and  wild  desire ; 
And  when  behind  no  window  bars, 
But  free  as  air  I  served  the  stars? 

Justin  Huntley  McCabthy. 


88 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


WRITTEN  UPON  A  BLANK  LEAF  IN 
"THE  COMPLETE  ANGLER" 

■IX/HILE  flowing  rivers  yield  a  blamelesa 

"      sport, 
Shall  live  the  name  of  Walton :  Sage  benign ! 
Whose  pen,  the  mysteries  of  the  rod  and  line 
Unfolding,  did  not  fruitlessly  exhort 
To  reverend  watching  of  each  still  report 
That  nature  utters  from  her  rural  shrine. 
Meek,  nobly  versed  in  simple  discipline — 
He  found  the  longest  summer  day  too  short, 
To  his  loved  pastime  given  by  sedgy  Lee, 
Or  down  the  tempting  maze  of  Shawford 

brook- 
Fairer  than  life  itself,  in  this  sweet  Book, 
The  cowslip-bank  and  shady  willow-tree ; 
And  the  fresh  meads — where  flowed,  from 

every  nook 
Of  his  full  bosom,  gladsome  Piety ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


84 


A  Ballade  of  Book-Making 


'       A  BALLADE  OF  BOOK-MAKING 

■\X7^HEN  wise  Koheleth  long  ago — 

Though  when  and  how  the  pundita 
wrangle  — 
Complained  of  books,  and  how  they  grow 

And  twist  poor  mankind's  brains  a-tangle, 
He  did  not  dream  the  fatal  f angle 

To  such  a  pitch  would  e'er  extend, 
And  such  a  world  of  paper  mangle — 
Of  making  books  there  is  no  end. 

The  poets  weep  for  last  year's  snow. 

About  the  porch  the  schoolmen  dangle, 
The  owl-like  eyes  of  science  glow 

O'er  arc,  hypothenuse,  and  angle ; 
The  playwrights  mouth,  the  preachers  jangle, 

The  critics  challenge  and  defend, 
And  Fiction  turns  the  Muses'  mangle — 

Of  making  books  there  is  no  end. 

Where'er  we  turn,  where'er  we  go. 

The  books  increase,  the  bookmen  brangle : 
Our  bookshelves  groan  with  row  on  row 

Of  nonsense  typed  in  neat  quadrangle. 
Better  to  bum  the  lot  and  twangle 

An  honest  banjo ;  better  tend 
To  ride  and  box  and  shoot  and  angle — 

Of  making  books  there  is  no  end. 
80 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Envoy 
Few  books  are  worth  a  copper  spangle : 

Come  forth,  and  choose,  my  dusty  friend, 
The  ranchman's  rope,  the  nautch-girl's  ban- 
gle— 
Of  making  books  there  is  no  end. 

Justin  Huntley  McCabthy. 


86 


To  My  Good  Master 


TO  MY  GOOD  MASTER 

IN  fancy,  always,  at  thy  desk,  thrown  wide, 
Thy    most    betreasured   books   ranged 

neighborly — 
The  rarest  rhymes  of  every  land  and  sea 
And  curious  tongue — ^thine  old  face  glori- 
fied,— 
Thou  haltest  thy  glib  quill,  and,  laughing- 
eyed, 
Givest  hale  welcome  even  unto  me. 
Profaning  thus  thine  attic's  sanctity, 
To  briefly  visit,  yet  to  still  abide 
Enthralled  there  of  thy  sorcery  of  wit 

And  thy  songs'  most  exceeding  dear 

conceits. 
0  lips,  cleft  to  the  ripe  core  of  all  sweets. 
With  poems,  like  nectar,  issuing  there- 
from. 
Thy  gentle  utterances  do  overcome 
My  listening  heart  and  all  the  love  of  it ! 
James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


87 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


IN  THE  LIBRARY 

CROM  the  oriels  one  by  one 

Slowly  fades  the  setting  sun ; 
On  the  marge  of  afternoon 
Stands  the  new-bom  crescent  moon ; 
In  the  twilight's  crimson  glow 
Dim  the  quiet  alcoves  grow. 
Drowsy-lidded  Silence  smiles 
On  the  long  deserted  aisles ; 
Out  of  every  shadowy  nook 
Spirit  faces  seem  to  look, 
Some  with  smiling  eyes,  and  some 
With  a  sad  entreaty  dumb ; 
He  who  shepherded  his  sheep 
On  the  wild  Sicilian  steep, 
He  above  whose  grave  are  set 
Sprays  of  Roman  violet ; 
Poets,  sages, — all  who  wrought 
In  the  crucible  of  thought. 
Day  by  day  as  seasons  glide 
On  the  great  eternal  tide, 
Noiselessly  they  gather  thus 
In  the  twilight  beauteous. 
Hold  communion  each  with  each. 
Closer  than  our  earthly  speech, 
Till  within  the  East  are  bom 
Premonitions  of  the  mom ! 

Clinton  Scoli^abd. 
88 


A  Ballade  of  Confession 


A  BALLADE  OF  CONFESSION 

"THE  dog-eared  tomes  of  ancient  sages 

Frown  at  me  from  the  shelves  up  there, 
World  famous,  ay,  for  many  ages. 

Braving  the  buSets  of  time  and  care ; 

Yet  though  they  breathe  Parnassian  air, 
Gto  hand  in  hand  with  Muses  nine, 

I  pass  them  all,  here's  one  more  rare, — 
The  little  book  that  once  was  thine ! 

I  know  that  Horace  scowls  and  rages, 

That  Homer  writhes  in  vain  despair, 
That  I  should  seek  those  pasturages 

Where  mawkish  sentiments  rave  and  tear. 

Methinks  all  Helicon  doth  stare, 
Forgets  its  hyssop  steeped  in  wine, 

To  think  that  I  to  read  should  dare 
The  little  book  that  once  was  thine ! 

'Tis  only  one  of  all  the  pages. 

The  others,  Horace,  I  will  swear 
Know  nought  of  me,  my  pilgrimages ; 

Your  ire,  dear  Homer,  please  forbear ! 

Yon  frisky  Cupid  might  declare 
The  reason  for  this  choice  of  mine, 

For,  Betty  dear,  'twas  his  affair. 
The  little  book  that  once  was  thine ! 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


L' ENVOY 

You  sent  it  with  a  lock  of  hair 
Pinned  to  the  page's  sweetest  line ; 

That  makes  it  far  beyond  compare, 
The  little  book  that  once  was  thine ! 

Habold  McGbath. 


WISER  THAN  BOOKS 

MY  Love  than  books  is  wiser  far. 
I  scanned  the  countless  pages 
Where  all  the  words  of  wisdom  are — 
The  proverbs  of  the  sages ; 
I  fain  had  known  what  meant  a  kiss, 
What  were  component  parts  of  bliss. 
But,  though  I  conned  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
It  was  no  plainer  than  before. 
At  last  I  found  my  Love,  and  he 
Explained  it  clearly,  all,  to  me. 

Katbina  Tbase. 


90 


To  the  Book  of  Follies 


TO  THE  BOOK  OF  FOLLIES 

HTHIS  tribute  from  a  wretched  elf, 

Who  hails  thee  emblem  of  himself ! 
The  book  of  life,  which  I  have  traced, 
Has  been,  like  thee,  a  motley  waste 
Of  follies  scribbled  o'er  and  o'er, 
One  folly  bringing  hundreds  more. 
Some  have  indeed  been  writ  so  neat, 
In  characters  so  fair,  so  sweet, 
That  those  who  judge  not  too  severely 
Have  said  they  loved  such  follies  dearly  I 
Yet  still,  0  book !  the  allusion  stands; 
For  these  were  penned  by  female  hands ; 
The  rest, — alas !  I  own  the  truth, — 
Have  all  been  scribbled  so  uncouth. 
That  prudence,  with  a  withering  look. 
Disdainful  flings  away  the  book. 
Like  thine,  its  pages  here  and  there 
Have  oft  been  stained  with  blots  of  care; 
And  sometimes  hours  of  peace,  I  own, 
Upon  some  fairer  leaves  have  shown, 
"White  as  the  snowings  of  that  Heaven 
By  which  those  hours  of  peace  were  given. 
But  now  no  longer — such,  oh !  such 
The  blast  of  Disappointment's  touch  I 
No  longer  now  those  hours  appear ; 
Each  leaf  is  sullied  by  a  tear : 
91 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Blank,  blank  is  every  page  with  care, 
Not  e'en  a  folly  brightens  there. 
Will  they  yet  brighten? — Never,  never ! 
Then  shut  the  book,  0  God,  forever! 

Thomas  Moobb. 


AN  UNCUT  COPY 

■\X/HEN  I  was  young  I  sent  ray  friend  a 
copy  of  "My  Verses," 
And  when  he  died  he  left  his  books  to  me, 
dear  to  his  heart. 
To-day  I  looked  them  over  all,  and  find — 
ten  thousand  curses ! — 
My  book  is  there,  and  no  two  leaves  have 
e'er  been  cut  apart. 

John  Kbndbice  Bxsq*, 


9S 


The  Book- Worm's  Pledge 


THE  BOOK-WORM'S  PLEDGE 

T  PLEDGED  my  word  this  morning, 

As  I  started  down  the  street, 
That  not  a  single  book  I'd  buy — 
For  me  a  wondrous  feat. 

As  I  wandered  past  the  windows 
Of  the  news-stands  on  the  way, 

With  scarce  a  wish  to  purchase, 
I  my  mandate  could  obey. 

But  temptation,  ever  ready 

To  hold  her  victims  fast, 
Li  the  guise  of  an  old  book  store, 

Filled  with  relics  of  the  past, 

Dawned  upon  my  willing  vision, 
And  I  thought  she'll  never  mind 

If  I  glance  within  a  moment 
And  perhaps  some  treasure  find. 

Ah,  behold  how  fortune  t«ases, 
What  a  glorious  prize  is  here ! 

First  edition,  not  a  blemish. 
Rare  old  volume  of  Shakespeare. 

Ah,  I  pledged  my  word  this  morning, 

And  to  keep  it  I  will  try, 
But  the  gods  will  frown  upon  me 

Should  I  let  that  chance  pais  by. 
93 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


There  on  yonder  shelf  inviting 
Eests  a  missal  old  and  quaint, 

Relic  of  the  Gothic  ages 
Scanned  by  some  mediaeval  saint; 

Missal  with  the  blazoned  pages, 

Triumph  of  the  ancient  art, 
With  your  worn  old  vellum  covers, 

How  you  tempt  my  sinful  heart ! 

Close  beside  it,  dim  and  dusty. 
Bearing  imprint  of  the  years 

They  have  whirled  along  life's  current, 
Stand  two  priceless  Elzevirs. 

I  pledged  my  word  this  morning, 
But  the  keeping  is  too  dear ; 

I  would  be  far  more  than  mortal, 
Could  I  leave  those  volumes  here. 

Shades  of  bookmen  who  behold  me, 
Oh,  forgive  my  perjured  self ; 

You  would  leave  your  seat  in  glory 
For  a  peep  at  yonder  shelf. 

C.  D.  Baymeb. 


94 


My  Presentation  Book-Case 


MY  PEESENTATION  BOOK-CASE 

[With  Apologies  to  Eossetti's  Sonnet:  "A  Super- 
scription."] 

1  OOK  on  my  shelves — ^the  realm  of  Might- 
have-been  : 
And  yet  right  glad  am  I  they  hold  no 

knell, 
Are  undusk'd    o'er  with    shadows    of 
farewell — 
But  one  and  every  book's  alive  with  the 

sheen 
Of  Life  and  Art  and  what  of  each  is  seen. 
Look  on  my  shelves:  lo,  an  enduring 

spell 
To  lure  collectors'  hopes  intolerable : 
Of  loveliest  thoughts  and  dreams  the  book- 
ish screen. 

Mark  me,  what  dust  there  is!  But  should 
there  dart 
Along  these  rows  the  Bookman's  eager 

eyes 
Lit  with  a  first-edition-glow  surmise — 
Then  shalt  thou  see  me  ope,  and  turn  apart 
These  frail  glazed  doors,  and  rend  thy  in- 
most heart 
With  many  a  rare  unpurchasable  prize. 
William  Sharp. 
95 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


DREAMS 

AJIY  library's  not  lined  with  treasures  rare, 
With  treasures    rich,  with  treasures 

past  compare. 
No  manuscripts  it  holds  of  Poe,  or  Scott, 
And  many  are  the  autographs  I've  not. 
In  yonder  alcove,  over  to  the  left. 
You'll  find  a  spot  of  rarest  tomes  bereft ; 
And  there  upon  the  walnut  chiffonnier 
There  stands  no  folio  of  Will  Shakespeare. 
Now  turn  the  key  of  that  not-buhl-work 

chest. 
And  gaze  into  its  depths;  no  rare  prints 

rest 
Therein — just  try,  I  pray,  to  take  one  out : 
The  truth  of  what  I  say  'twill  prove  past 

doubt. 
Those  Stevensons  you  fail  to  find  up  there 
Are,  all  of  them,  the  rarest  of  the  rare : 
And  those  editions  of  the  Poets  past 
Hold  not  a  "first"  among  them— all  are 

"last." 
And  that  small  color  sketch  upon  the  wall 
Is  not  a  fine  Cruikshank  original. 
But,  oh  what  joy  is  mine  to  dream  of  what 
I  haven't  got ! 
John  Kendbick  Bangs. 
96 


The  Lay  of  the  Grolierite 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  GROLIERITE 

"THE  love  of  maids,  the  love  of  maids, 

'lis  sunshine  when  they  smile ; 
But  if  they  frown,  how  black  the  shades 
Which  shroud  my  heart  the  while. 

The  maids  I  love,  the  maids  I  love. 
How  pride  doth  hedge  them  in ! 

They  hold  their  favor  far  above 
My  humble  wit  to  win. 

The  maids  I  love,  the  maids  I  love. 
Whoe'er  would  win  such  prize 

Had  need  be  harmless  as  the  dove, 
And,  as  the  serpent,  wise. 

So  not  for  me  is  love  of  maids, 

Be  they  or  kind  or  cold ; 
The  love  of  maids,  'tis  not  for  me. 

Though  I  be  young  or  old. 

The  love  of  books,  the  love  of  books, 

It  passeth  love  of  maids ; 
It  doth  not  fade  with  fading  looks 

Like  love  of  them, — the  jades ! 

The  books  I  love,  the  booka  I  love, 

A  gracious  proffer  make ; 
They  hold  a  hoard  of  joys,  whereof 

They  bid  me  freely  take. 

7  97 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


The  books  I  love,  the  books  I  love, 
They  spread  their  welcome  wide ; 

Not  I  alone  may  take  thereof, 
But  all  the  world  beside. 

W.  D.  Ellwangbb. 


BOOKS 

/^R  else  I  sat  on  in  my  chamber  green, 
And  liv'd  my  life,  and  thought  my 
thoughts,  and  pray'd 
My  prayers  without  the  vicar;    read  my 

books, 
"Without  considering  whether  they  were  fit 
To  do  me  good.    Mark,  there.    We  get  no 

good 
By  being  ungenerous,  even  to  a  book, 
And  calculating  profits    ...    so   much 

help 
By  so  much  reading.    It  is  rather  when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves,  and  plunge 
Soul-forward,  headlong,  into  a  book's  pro- 
found, 
Impassioned    for   its   beauty    and  salt   of 

truth — 
'Tis  then  we  get  the  right  good  from  a  book. 
Elizabeth  Baerett  Browning. 


My  Library 


MY  LIBRARY 

A  S  one  who  pauses  on  a  rock, 

The  bastion  of  some  sea  nymph's  home, 
And  feels  the  ripples  round  him  flock, 
Then  cleaves  the  foam, 

And  glides  through  cool,  pellucid  ways 
Where  creepers  kiss  each  thrilling  limb 

And  hears,  or  thinks  he  hears,  low  lays 
Of  cherubim. 

And  marvels  at  the  wondrous  scene. 

The  ruins  upon  ruins  hurled. 
The  moving  hosts,  the  darkling  sheen. 

The  awful  world. 

Then  rises,  snatching  first  some  gem, 
Some  token  of  his  sojourn  there, 

And  flings  a  dewy  diadem 
From  face  and  hair. 

And  in  the  sunlight,  with  the  eigh 
Of  sea  winds  whistling  in  his  ears, 

Views  his  found  treasure  till  his  eye 
Is  dim  with  tears ; 

So,  where  in  lordly  sweeping  bays, 

In  distant  dark  retiring  nooks, 
Stretches  before  my  eager  gaze 

This  sea  of  books. 

99 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


I  pauBe  and  draw  one  fervent  breath, 
Then  plunge  and  seem  to  pass  away 

Into  deep  waters  as  still  as  death, 
Yet  clear  as  day. 

To  move  by  bowlders  of  the  past, 
By  caves  where  falter  dimly  pure 

Gleams  of  the  future,  all  the  vast 
Of  literature. 

Then  to  return  to  life  above, 

From  regions  Avhere  but  few  have  trod, 
Bearing  a  gem  of  larger  love 

To  man  and  God. 


IDO 


The  Book  I've  Read  Before 


THE  BOOK  I'VE  BEAD  BEFORE 

f  HEAR  of  many  a  "latest  book;" 
I  note  what  zealous  readers  say ; 
Through  columns  critical  I  look, 

With  their  decisive  "yea"  and  "nay!" 
At  times  I  own  I'm  half  inclined 

O'er  some  new  masterpiece  to  pore ; 
Yet  in  the  end  I  always  find 

I  choose  the  book  I've  read  before ! 

Its  well-known  contents  suit  my  taste, 

I  know  what  it  is  all  about ; 
And  so  I  never  am  in  haste 

To  find  "how  it  is  coming  out." 
But  quietly  I  wend  my  way : 

O'er  each  familiar  scene  I  pore — 
The  bright,  the  dark,  the  grave,  the  gay — 

Of  that  old  book  I've  read  before. 

Then  worry  not,  my  puzzled  friend : 
I'm  odd,  I  own ;  and  so  while  you 
Your    way    through   countless   volumefl 
wend, 
Entranced  with  each,  so  "late"   and 
"new," 
Be  not  surprised  that  I,  meanwhile, 

Avoiding  new  ones  by  the  score, 
Full  many  a  passing  hour  beguile 
With  some  old  books  I've  read  before! 
101 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


And  if,  perchance,  the  hint  you  take 

To  shun  the  new,  and  read  the  old ; 
And  find,  surprised,  the  change  you  make 

Reveals  new  beauties,  all  untold : 
'Twill  surely  duplicate  my  joy 

While  o'er  the  old  I  fondly  pore. 
When  you  with  me  find  sweet  employ 

In  some  old  book  we've  read  before. 
Chakles  R.  Ballard. 


102 


In  a  Library 


m  A  LIBRARY 

THIS  place  is  wonderful;    here  old  ro- 
mance, 
Delicate  phantasy  and  high  emprize 
Quicken  the  pulses  and  make  big  the  eyes 
Of  Youth ;  and  here  strong  manhood  has 

the  chance 
To  parley  with  its  peers ;  and  maidenhood 
Is  sweetly  ripened  for  love's  crowning  good. 

This  is  Imagination's  room ;  and  here 
Keen  Science,  with  a  crystal-piercing  gaze, 
Wipes  from  the  brain  the  mystifying  haze 
rhat  doth  hold  back  a  world;  the  atmos- 
phere 
Is  luminous  with  truth  to  God  most  dear. 

Yea,  'tis  a  chosen  chamber  of  the  Lord, 
A  place  where  mind  and  soul  learn  Free- 
dom's way ; 
Hence,  meet  it  is,  upon  this  Freedom's  day, 
When  all  Americans  in  vast  accord. 
With  thunder  of  guns  and  psean  of  bells 

proclaim 
Their   country  and   her  righteousness   of 

fame, 
To  open  this  fair  hall  and  consecrate  her 
name. 

RiCHABD  BUBTOK. 

^103 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


BOOKS 

•THOUGH  ne'er  so  humble  should  our  sta- 
tion be,  . 
We  still  may  mingle  with  the  great  and 

wise; 
Roam,  unmolested,  the  vast  treasuries 
Where  wisdom's  priceless  gems  are  scat- 
tered free. 
We  may,  at  will,  explore  sky,  earth  and  sea ; 
Man's  heart  and  mind  probe  deep  with 

Shakespeare's  eyes ; 
With  blind  old  Milton  walk  through  para- 
dise; 
Of  life  and  death  possess  the  master-key. 

With  books  as  guides,  with  prophet,  poet, 
sage. 
In  sweet  companionship  we  daily  dwell ; 
With  kings  sit  nightly  round  the  banquet 
board ; 
By  learning's  light  knowledge's  gracious 
page 
Shall  render  unto  us  a  precious  hoard 
In  an  abundance  inexhaustible. 

Alfked  Lavington. 


IM 


A  Fable  for  Critics 


A  FABLE  FOR  CRITICS 

1 1  lUEANWHILE  I  have  brought  you  a 

^'^    book, 
Into  which  if  you'll  just  have  the  goodnesa 

to  look, 
You  may  feel  so  delighted  (when  once  you 

are  through  it) 
As  to  deem  it  not  unworth  your  while  to 

review  it, 
And  I  think  I  can  promise  your  thoughts, 

if  you  do, 
A  place  in  the  next  Democratic  Review." 

The  most  thankless  of  gods  you  must  sure- 
ly have  thought  me. 
For  this  is  the  forty-fourth    copy  you've 

brought  me, 
I  have  given  them  away,  or  at  least  I  have 

tried, 
But  I've  forty-two  left,  standing  all  side  by 

side — 
(The   man  who    accepted   that  one   copy 

died), — 
From  one  end  of  a  shelf  to  the  other  they 

reach, 
'With  the  author's  respects'  neatly  written 

ineadi, 

lOB 


Book-Lovers'  Verse 


The  publisher,  sure,  will   proclaim  a   Te 
Deum, 

When  he  hears  of  that  order  the  British 
Museum 

Has  sent  for  one  set  of  what  books  were 
first  printed 

In  America,  little  or  big, — for  'tis  hinted 

That  this  is  the  first  truly  tangible  hope  he 

Has  ever  had  raised  for  the  sale  of  a  copy. 

I've  thought  very  often  'twould  be  a  good 
thing 

In  all  public  collections  of  books,  if  a  wing 

Were  set  off  by  itself,  like  the  seas  from  the 
dry  lands. 

Marked  Literature  suited  to  desolate  islands. 

And  filled  with  such  books  as  could  never 
be  read 

Save  by  readers  of  proofs,  forced  to  do  it 
for  bread, — 

Such  books  as  one's  wrecked  on  in  small 
country-taverns, 

Such  as  hermits  might  mortify  over  in  cav- 
erns, 

Such  as  Satan,  if  printing  had  then  been  in- 
vented. 

As  the  climax  of  woe,  would  to  Job  have 
presented. 

Jambs  Eussbll  Lowbll. 


106 


To  an  Old  Book 


TO  AN  OLD  BOOK 

/^LD  book  forlorn,  compiled  of  ancient 

thought, 
Now  bought  and  sold,  and  once  more  sold 

and  bought. 
At  last  left  stranded,  where  in  time  I  spied, 
Borne  thither  by  an  impecunious  tide ; 
Well  thumbed,  stain-marked,  but  new  and 

dear  to  me. 
My  purse  and  thy  condition  well  agree. 
I  saw  thee,  yearned,  then  took  thee  to  my 

arms. 
For  fellowship  in  misery  has  charms. 
How  long,  I  know  not,  thou  hadst  lain  un- 

scanned. 
Thy  mellow  leaves  untouched  by  loving 

hand — 
For  there  thou  wast  beneath  a  dusty  heap, 
Unknown.    I  raised  thee,  therefore  let  me 

reap 
A  harvest  from  thy  treasures .  Thee  I  found — 
Yea,  thee  I'll  cherish ;  though  new  friends 

abound, 
I'll  still  preserve  thee  as  the  years  go  round. 
Edoab  Gbebkleaf  Bradford. 


107 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


WITH  A  COPY  OF  THE  ILIAD 

D  AYARD,  awaken  not  this  music  strong 
While  round  thy  home  the  indolent 
sweet  breeze 
Floats  lightly  as  the  summer  breath  of  seas 
O'er  which  Ulysses  heard  the  Sirens'  song ! 
Dreams  of  low-lying  isles  to  June  belong, 
And  Circe  holds  us  in  her  haunts  of  ease ; 
But  later,  when  these  high  ancestral  trees 
Are  sere,  and  such  Odyssean  languors  wrong 
The  reddening  strength  of  the  autumnal 

year. 
Yield  to  heroic  words  thine  ear  and  eye ; 
Intent  on  these  broad  pages  thou  shalt  hear 
The  trumpet's  blare,  the  Argive  battle-cry, 
And  see  Achilles  hurl  his  hurtling  spear, 
And  mark  the  Trojan  arrows  make  reply. 
Edmund  Clabsncs  Stedmak. 


108 


Of  the  Book-Hunter 


OF  THE  BOOK-HUNTER 

TN  torrid  heats  of  late  July, 

In  March,  beneath  the  bitter  bise, 
He  book-hunts  while  the  loungers  fly, 

He  book-hunts,  though  December  freeze ; 
In  breeches  baggy  at  the  knees, 

And  heedless  of  the  public  jeers, 
For  these,  for  these,  he  hoards  his  fees, — 

Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

No  dismal  stall  escapes  his  eye, 

He  turns  o'er  tomes  of  low  degrees, 
There  soiled  romanticists  may  lie, 

Or  Restoration  comedies ; 
Each  tract  that  flutters  in  the  breeze 

For  him  is  charged  with  hopes  and  fears, 
In  moldy  novels,  fancy  sees 

Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

With  restless  eyes  that  peer  and  spy, 

Sad  eyes  that  heed  not  skies  nor  trees, 
In  dismal  nooks  he  loves  to  pry, 

Whose  motto  evermore  is  Spes! 
But  ah !  the  fabled  treasure  flees ; 

Grown  rarer  with  the  fleeting  years. 
In  rich  men's  shelves  they  take  their  ease, — 

Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 
109 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


EXVOY 

Prince,  all  the  things  that  tease  and  please, — 
Fame,  hope,  wealth,  kisses,  cheers,  and 
tears, 
What  are  they  but  such  toys  as  these, — 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

Andrew  Lang. 


THE  BOOK 

C  ACH  life  of  man  is  but  a  page 

In  God's  great  diary ;  each  age 
A  separate  volume  and  each  race 
A  chapter.    For  a  little  space 
We  write,  and,  childlike,  cry  our  powers. 
Nor  deem  His  hand  is  guiding  ours. 

Post  Wheeler. 


110 


Lamb's  Dramatic  Poets 


ON  LAMB'S  SPECIMENS  OF  DRA- 
MATIC POETS 


I F  all  the  flowers  of  all  the  fields  on  earth 
By  wonder-working  summer  were  made 
one, 
Its  fragrance  were  not  sweeter  in  the  sun, 
Its  treasure-house  of  leaves  were  not  more 

worth 
Than  those  wherefrom  thy  light  of  musing 
mirth 
Shone,  till  each  leaf  whereon  thy  pens 

would  run 
Breathed   life,   and   all   its  breath  were 
benison. 
Beloved  beyond  all  names  of  English  birth, 
More  dear  than  mightier  memories ;  gentlest 

name 
That  ever  clothed  itself  with  flower-sweet 

fame,  iA 

Or  linked  itself  with  loftiest  names  of  old, 

By  right  and  might  of  loving ;  I,  that  am 

Less  than  the  least  of  these  among  thy  fold. 

Give  only  thanks  for  them  to  thee,  Charles 

Lamb.  ify;,.- 


Ill 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


II 

So  many  a  year  had  borne  its  own  bright 
bees 
And  slain  them  since  thy  honey-bees  were 

hived, 
John  Day,  in  cells  of  flower-sweet  verse, 
contrived 
So  well  with  craft  of  moldering  melodies, 
Thy  soul  perchance  in  amaranth  fields  at 
ease 
Thought  not  to  hear  the  sound  on  earth 

revived 
Of  summer  music  from  the  spring  derived 
When  thy  song  sucked  the  flower  of  flower- 
ing trees. 
But  thine  was  not  the  chance  of  every  day : 
Time,  after  many  a  darkling   hour,   grew 
sunny, 
And  light  between  the  clouds  ere  sunset 
swam, 
Laughing,  and  kissed  their  darkness  all 

away, 
When,  touched  and  tasted  and  approved, 
thy  honey 
Took  subtler  sweetness  from  the  lips  of 
Lamb. 

A.  C.  SWINBUBKB. 


112 


Extra-Illustrating 


EXTRA-ILLUSTEATING 

A  MONG  the  books  I  have  is  one 

That  teases,  tantaUzes,  taunts  me ; 
"Yea,  hke  a  demon  or  a  dun, 
That  sohtary  volume  haunts  me. 

It  glowers  upon  me  from  the  shelf, 
And  on  my  leisure  time  encroaches ; 

Like  some  maUgnant  little  elf, 
It  fills  my  mind  with  its  reproaches. 

Wherever  I  may  turn  my  eyes, 
Upon  that  tome  they  seem  to  linger; 

I  fancy  that  it  moans  and  sighs. 
And  points  at  me  a  scornful  finger. 

It  seems  to  say : — "I  spoke  you  fair ; 

Yet  how,  oh !  how  have  you  repaid  me? 
You  once  esteemed  me  passing  rare : 

And  yet  behold  what  you  have  made  me ! 

"Despoiled,  I  can  not  hide  my  shame ; 

'Twill  be  proclaimed  to  future  ages. 
When  some  book-loving  squire  or  dame 

Turns  angrily  my  ravaged  pages. 


113 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


"That  book  of  yours  has  vast  increase 
Of  plates  and  prints  of  your  collating ; 

Yet  you  must  steal  my  frontispiece 
Because  you're  'extra-illustrating.' " 

It  haunts  me  like  relentless  fate ; 

Its  jeers  and  sneers  I  can  not  smother- 
This  book  from  which  I  tore  a  plate 

To  "extra-illustrate"  another. 

Haeky  B.  Smith. 


114 


The  Young  Wife's  Plaint 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE'S  PLAINT 

MAY,  Beems  it  not  most  wondrous  queer 

That  he  should  love  to  tarry  here ; 
Prefer  this  "den"  to  boudoir  nest 
Where  downy  pillows  coax  to  rest, 
Chaise-longue  and  Turkish  cigarette? 
A  stranger  compound  ne'er  was  met 
Than  this  same  creature  man,  I  ween. 
What's  this  dull  calf  to  velvet  sheen? 
Who  dares  assert  that  this  pert  minx 
On  yellow  page  in  dingy  inks 
Is  half  so  fair  as  I  am,  see ! 
What  woman  would  not  angry  be 
With  man  who  turns  from  Uving  charms 
To  worship  some  dead  beauty's  arms? 
Why  should  he  care  of  smiles  to  read 
When  mine  so  sweet  are  his  indeed? 
What's  Maintenon  or  this  L'Enclos 
Or  Gwynn  to  him,  I'd  like  to  know? 
What  stupid  fad,  what  silly  rage 
To  love  such  trash  of  bygone  age ! 
Why,  as  I  live,  these  letters  mean 
Just  fifteen  hundred  seventeen. 
Nay,  'tis  a  shame  to  buy  such  stuff 
"When  nice  new  books  are  cheap  enough ! 
Knew  I  how  soon  I'd  be  forgot 
I  ne'er  had  wedded  him,  God  wot. 
115 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Vile,  musty  books,  in  dead  skins  bound- 
Faugh,  what  an  odor  lingers  round! 
'Tis  shameful  taste,  indeed  it  is ; 
But  hear  my  vow,  ye  loves  of  his, 
In  spite  of  all  your  dingy  looks — 
Apologies  for  decent  books — 
I'll  win  him  back,  ye  mildewed  crew, 
I'll  make  him  think  I  love  you  too.' 


Uft 


Betty  Barnes,  the  Book-Burner 


BETTY  BAENES,  THE  BOOK-BUHNER 

■\^HERE  is  that  baleful  maid 

Who  Shakespeare's  quartos  shred? 
Whose  slow  diurnal  raid 

The  flames  with  Steplien  fed? 

Where  is  Duke  Humphry  sped? 
Where  is  the  Henries'  book? 

They  are  all  vanished 
With  Betty  Barnes  the  Cook. 

And  now  her  ghost,  dismayed, 

In  woful  ways  doth  tread — 
(Though  once  the  grieving  shade 

Sir  Walter  visited) — 

Where  culprits  sore  bestead, 
In  dank  or  fiery  nook, 

Eepent  there  deeds  of  dread 
With  Betty  Barnes  the  Cook. 

There  Bagford's  evU  trade 

Is  duly  punished ; 
There  fierce  the  flames  have  played 

Round  Caliph  Omar's  head ; 

The  biblioclastic  dead 
Have  diverse  pains  to  brook, 

'Mid  rats  and  rainpools  led 
With  Betty  Barnes  the  Cook. 

117 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Caxton !  be  comforted, 

For  those  who  wronged  thee — look ; 
They  break  affliction's  bread 

With  Betty  Barnes  the  Cook. 

KOSAMUND   MaREIOTT-WaTSON. 


MY  LORD  THE  BOOK 

A  BOOK  is  an  aristocrat ; 

'Tis  pampered— lives  in  state ; 
Stands  on  a  shelf,  with  naught  whereat 
To  worry— lovely  fate ! 

Enjoys  the  best  of  company ; 

And  often — ay,  'tis  so — 
Like  much  in  aristocracy, 

Its  title  makes  it  go. 

John  Kendkick  Bangs. 


U8 


Old  and  New 


OLD  AND  NEW 

/^LD  friends  are  best,  the  poets  sing. 

No  others  are  so  staunch  and  true. 
New  friends  in  trouble  will  not  cling 
As  closely  as  the  old  friends  do. 

Old  books  are  best  without  a  doubt. 

Their  charms  can  never  fail  to  win. 
New  books,  however  bright  without, 

Have  not  their  power  to  please  within. 

Old  wines  are  best,  as  all  aver. 
And  often  are  their  praises  sung. 

They're  rich  and  rare,  have  power  to  stir 
The  pulses  of  both  old  and  young. 

Friends,  wine  and  books  have  charms  to 
please 

When  age  its  ivy  round  them  curls ; 
But  we've  no  use  for  such  as  these : 

Old  jokes,  old  clothes,  old  ballet  girls. 


119 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


OF  BEADING 

/^NE  drachma  for  a  good  book,  and  a 

thousand  talents  for  a  true  friend : — 
So  standeth  the  market  where  scarce  is  ever 

costly. 
Yea,  were  the  diamonds  of  Golconda  com- 
mon as  shingles  on  the  shore, 
A  ripe  apple  would  ransom  kings  before  a 

shining  store : 
And  so,  were  a  wholesome  book  as  rare  as 

an  honest  friend, 
To  choose  the  book  be  mine ;  the  friend  let 

another  take. 
For  altered  looks  and  jealousies  and  fears 

have  none  entrance  there: 
The  silent  volume  listeneth  well,  and  speak- 

eth  when  thou  hsteth : 
It  praiseth  the  good  without  envy,  it  chideth 

thine  evil,  without  malice. 
It  is  to  thee  thy  waiting  slave,  and  thine 

unbending  teacher. 
Need  to  humor  no  caprice,  need  to  bear 

with  no  infirmity ; 
Thy  sin,  thy  slander,  or  neglect,  chilleth 

not,  quencheth  not,  its  love; 

120 


Of  Reading 


Unalterably  speaketh  it  the  truth,  warped 

not  by  error  nor  interest; 
For  a  good  book  is  the  best  of  friends,  the 

same  to-day  and  forever. 

To  draw  thee  out  of  self,  thy  petty  plans  and 
cautions. 

To  teach  thee  what  thou  lackest,  to  tell  thee 
how  largely  thou  art  blest, 

To  lure  thy  thought  from  sorrow,  to  feed  thy 
famished  mind. 

To  graft  another's  wisdom  on  thee,  prun- 
ing thine  own  folly ; 

Choose  discreetly,  and  well  digest  the  vol- 
ume most  suited  to  thy  case. 

Touching  not  religion  with  levity,  nor  deep 
things  when  thou  art  wearied. 

Thy  mind  is  freshened  by  morning  air,  grap- 
ple with  science  and  philosophy ; 

Noon  hath  unnerved  thy  thoughts,  dream 
for  a  while  on  fictions ; 

Gray  evening  sobereth  thy  spirit,  walk  thou 
then  with  worshipers ; 

But  reason  shall  dig  deepest  in  the  night, 
and  fancy  fly  most  free. 

O  books,  ye  monuments  of  mind,  concrete 
wisdom  of  the  wisest ; 

Sweet  solaces  of  daily  Ufe;  proofs  and  re- 
sults of  immortality ; 

12X 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Trees  yielding  all  fruits,  whose  leaves  are 

for  the  healing  of  the  nations. 
Groves  of  knowledge  where  all  may  eat,  nor 

fear  a  flaming  sword ; 
Gentle  comrades,   kind  advisers;   friends, 

comforts,  treasures ; 
Helps,  governments,  diversities  of  tongues ; 

who  can  weigh  your  worth? 
To  walk  no  longer  with  the  just;  to  be 

driven  from  the  porch  of  science ; 
To  bid  long  adieu  to  those  intimate  ones, 

poets,  philosophers,  and  teachers ; 
To  see  no  record  of  the  sympathies  which 

bind  thee  in  communion  with  the  good ; 
To  be  thrust  from  the  feet  of  Him,  who 

spake  as  never  man  spake ; 
To  have  no  avenue  to  heaven  but  the  dim 

aisle  of  superstition ; 
To  live  as  an  Esquimau,  in  lethargy ;  to  die 

as  the  Mohawk,  in  ignorance : 
O  what  were  life,  but  a  blank?    What  were 

death,  but  a  ten-or? 
What  were  man,  but  a  burden  to  himself? 

What  were  mind,  but  misery? 
Yea,  let  another  Omar  burn  the  full  library 

of  knowledge, 
And  the  broad  world  may  perish  in  the 

flames,  offered  on  the  ashes  of  its  wis- 
dom 1 

Maetin  Fakquhak  Tuppkb. 

122 


My  Books 


MY  BOOKS 


THE  winter  evening  closes  blank  and  stem, 

The  flickering  fire  illumes  with  dancing 

light 

^ly  narrow  chamber  walls,  and  as  the 

night 

Draws  on  to  mom,  my  lamp  half  down  I 

turn. 
Amid  the  shadows  dimly  I  discern 
My   books,   dumb    comrades,    gay   and 

erudite, 
From  foUos  brown  to  pamphlets  thin  and 
white. 
Well-nigh  the  only  friends  from  whom  I 

learn. 
Full  half  of  them  would  be  by  busy  men 
Rejected  with  a  smile,  but  I — I  move 
Too  seldom  down  the  volumes  that  im- 
prove. 
Give  me  the  work  of  a  forgotten  pen. 
Wild  tales  of  Prester  John  or  of  the  Cham, 
Or  emblem  quaintnesses  from  Amsterdam. 


IM 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Oh,  happy  he  who,  weary  of  the  sound 
Of  throbbing  life,  can  shut  his  study  door, 
Like  Heinsius,  on  it  all,  to  find  a  store 
Of  peace  that  otherwhere  is  never  found ! 
Such  happiness  is  mine,  when  all  around 
My  dear  dumb  friends  in  groups  of  three 

or  four 
Command  my  soul  to  linger  on  the  shore 
Of  those  fair  realms  where  they  reign  mon- 

archs  crowned. 
To-day  the  strivings  of  the  world  are  nought, 
For  I  am  in  a  land  that  glows  with  God, 
And  I  am  in  a  path  by  angels  trod. 
Dost  ask  what  book  creates  such  heavenly 
thought? 
Then  know  that  I  with  Dante  soar  afar, 
Till  earth  shrinks  slowly  to  a  tiny  star. 
J.  Williams. 


124 


To  Robert  Herrick 


TO  ROBERT  HERRICK 

TOCUND  Herrick,  tho'  this  age 

Leaves  uncut  thy  merry  page, 
Leaves  thy  song,  thy  robust  jest 
For  Quixotic  modem  quest ; 

Thinks  that  all  poetic  bliss 
Is  summed  in  soul-analysis ; 
Swinburne's  strange,  erratic  flight, 
Weird  desire  and  wild  delight; 

Pleasures  in  the  paltry  host — 
Starveling  muse's  eager  ghost 
Dribbling  song  in  purblind  flow- 
Poesy  has  sunk  so  low. 

I  would  see  beside  the  rill 
Decked  with  lawn  and  daffodil 
Sweetly  thro'  the  morning  air — 
Corinna  going  to  the  fair  1 

I  would  hear  the  birds  and  bees 
Sung  of  in  Hesperides ; 
Would  that  I  were  with  you  there, 
Drunken  with  the  dewy  air. 

And  Julia,  paragon  of  grace, 
I  would  look  upon  her  face ; 
Then  might  I  inspired  be, 
Fit  to  join  thy  company. 
125 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Ah !  Herrick,  softly  on  thy  mound 
I  would  still  bestrew  the  ground — 
Daffodil  and  rosemarj' 
Tokens  for  thy  memory. 

Thb  Philistinb. 


ALTEUISM 


W 


^HEN  a  book  is  packed  with  truth, 
Never  leave  it  on  the  shelf ; 
Pass  it  onward  to  your  friends, 
Having  mastered  it  yourself. 


If  you  have  a  friend  indeed, 
And  you  love  him  as  a  brother, 

Do  not  keep  it  to  yourself, 
Tell  it.    He  may  bless  another. 

If  you've  heard  a  wise  word  spoken. 
To  a  friend  that  word  impart ; 

'Tis  a  seed-thought  full  of  blessing, 
Plant  it  in  another's  heart. 

The  book  you  lend  will  quicken  thought ; 

The  friend  you  praise  another  bless ; 
The  word  you  speak  may  save  a  soul ; 
And  all  promote  God's  righteousness. 
Eev.  William  Wood. 
126 


'•^  Saints  and  Sinners'  Corner" 


THE  OTHER  "SAINTS  AND  SIN- 
NERS' CORNER" 

DEYOND  the  Dread  River  and  hard  by 
the  Lake 

That  bumeth  with  Brimstone  and  Fire, 
There  etandeth  an  Edifice  built  for  the  sake 

Of  Mortals  of  bookish  desire. 

'Tis  not  in  high  Heaven,  this  Book-hunter's 
haunt, 
Nor  lies  it  in  Satan's  Domains, 
But   midwr^    between   them — a  moderate 
jaunt 
By  slow  Pui^atorial  Trains. 

There    "Sinners"    and    "Saints"   too,  are 
wont  to  repair. 

When  stints  for  the  morning  are  o'er, 
Their  bibliognostical  notes  to  compare 

And  over  their  Treasures  to  pore. 

Queer  Bibliomaniac  spirits  are  some ; 

Some  miserly  Bibliotaphs ; 
Some  Bibliopoles  with  a  golden  thumb ; 

Some  near-sighted  Bibliographa. 

And  here  through  the  long  Labyrinthian 
aisles. 

That  open  on  book-scented  bowers, 
There  wander,  abstracted,  these  Bibliophiles 

As  bees  'mid  Hymettus's  flowers. 

127 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


The  "Saints"  of  these  Bookmen  one  Sunday 
in  Lent 
Their  Souls  to  Church  did  betake 
To  get  them  forgiveness  for  hours  they  had 
spent 
With  "Sinners" — down  by  the  Lake. 

The  "Sinners,"  the  meanwhile,  with  many 
a  sigh 

Sad  penance  were  practicing,  too ; — 
Each  telling,  for  beaJL,  th*^  Books  he  would 
/"'      buy 

Had  he  only  shilling  or  sou. 

"When,  suddenly,  startling  both  "Sinner" 
and  "Saint," 

'Twixt  Wail  and  Chant  of  the  Choir, 
There  came  a  terrestrial  cry  far  and  faint 

Of  "Fire,  Fire,  McClurg's  is  on  fire." 

Then  straightway  there  entered,  with  flut- 
tering leaves. 
The  Souls  of  incinerate  Books, 
That  long  had  reposed  'neath  McClurgian 
eaves. 
In  sacred  Millardian  nooks. 


128 


'*  Saints  and  Sinners'  Corner" 


As  Birda  of  the  Forest  they  found  their  way 
Home, 
(Where    Book-worms   destroy  not,    nor 
Rust), 
Each  volume  the  Phcenix  of  some  precious 
Tome 
Consumed  into  ashes  and  dust. 

Among  them  were  Elzevirs,  queens  of  their 
kind. 
Of  delicate  beauty  and  grace, 
And  Aldines  and  Pick'rings,  and,  trailing 
behind, 
The  Kelmscotts  of  fair  Saxon  face. 

Rich  Zehnsdorf  apparel  some  Souls  did  en- 
fold; 

And  some  were  in  Sanderson  dress. 
Of  th'  Orient  redolent,  'broidered  in  gold, 

And  fresh  from  the  Binder's  caress. 

For   none  were   admitted   to   lie   on   the 
shelves, 
O'erguarded  by  Gutenberg's  care, 
Except   the   Elect,    the   Immortals  them- 
selves,— 
None  save  "First  Editions"  and  "rare." 


1S» 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


The  "Saints"  quick  forgot  their  confessions 
in  mirth ; 
The  "Sinners"  their  Eosaries  spurned; 
Such  joy  was   in    Limbo    as  when    upon 
Earth 
Millard  from  his  journeys  returned. 

They  feasted  their  eyes  on  their  treasures 

new-found, 

Not  knowing  which  ones  they  loved  most ; 

They  sang  bookish  songs  of  hilarious  sound, 

And   Field    danced  with  Dibdin's  glad 

ghost. 

Then,  tiring,  they  nestled  themselves  in  the 
Nooks, 
As  "Sinners"  and  "Saints"  did  of  old. 
And  thumbed  o'er   again   the   delectable 
Books 
Which,  haply,  Millard  had  not  sold. 

Mourn  not  o'er  their  Ashes  in  hopelessness, 
then, 
Oh  sorrowful  Bibliophile, 
In  yonder  far  Corner  we'll  fondle  again 
These  Books  which  we've  lost  for  the 
while. 
Johannes  Hustonius  Finleius. 


180 


A  Disappointed  Faddist 


A  DISAPPOINTED  FADDIST 

pRSTWHILE  it  was  worth  while  to  seek 

for  books  that  others  lack 
And  pay  great  sums  for  them,  as  should  a 

bibliomaniac, 
But  it  has  come  to  pass,  alas !  to  my  extreme 

amaze, 
That  posters  about  books  are  now  a  more 

expensive  craze. 

I  am  rejoiced  I  do  not  own  that  priceless 

Tamerlane, 
For  I  should  feel  obliged  to  go  and  sell  the 

thing  again, 
In  order  to  raise  funds  to  buy  some  posters 

for  my  son, 
Who's  bit  with  liking  for  these  daubs  that 

all  who  read  must  run ! 

He's  brought  some  cheap  ones  home,  and 
they  hang  o'er  my  precious  books, 

While  I  pursue  my   saddened  way  with 
anguish  in  my  looks ; 

I  hoped  my  boy  would  early  learn  my  biblio- 
philish  knack ; 

But,  worse  luck !  he  turns  out  to  be  a  poster- 
maniac! 

The  Boston  Transcript. 
131 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


THE  BOOK  BATTALION 

TX/HEREVER  I  go,  there's  a  trusty  bat- 
^ "     talion 
That  follows  me  faithfully,  steady  and 
true; 
Their  force,  when  I  falter,  I  safely  may  rally 
on. 
Knowing  their  stoutness  will  carry  me 
through ; 
Some  fifteen  hundred  in  order  impartial, 
So  ranged  that  they  tell  what  they  mean 
by  their  looks. 
Of  all  the  armies  the  world  can  marshal 
There  are  no  better  soldiers  than  the  well- 
tried  books. 
Dumb  in  their  ranks  on  the  shelves  impris- 
oned, 
They  never  retreat.    Give  the  word,  and 
they'll  fire! 
A  few  with  scarlet  and  gold  are  bedizened, 

But  many  muster  in  rough  attire ; 
And  some,  with  service  and  scars  grown 
wizened, 
Seem  hardly  the  mates  for  their  fellows  in 
youth ; 
Yet  they,  and  the  troops  armed  only  with 
quiz  and 
Light  laughter,  all  battle  alike  for  the 
truth. 

132 


The  Book  Battalion 


Here  are  those  who  gave  motive  to  sock  and 
to  buskin ; 
With  critics,  historians,  poets  galore; 
A  cheaply  uniformed  set  of  Ruskin, 
Which  Ruskin  would  hate  from  his  heart's 
very  core ; 
MoU^re  ('99),  an  old  calf -bound  edition, 

"i)e  Pierre  Didot  Valni!  et  de  Firmin  Didot," 
Which,  meek  and  demure,  with  a  sort  of 
contrition, 
Is  masking   its   gun-lights,  with  fun  all 
aglow; 
And  Smollett  and  Fielding,  as  veterans  bat- 
tered— 
Goth  stripped  from  their  backs,  and  their 
sides  out  of  joint. 
The  pictures  of  hfe  all  naked  and  tattered 
Being  thus  apphed  to  themselves  with  a 
point ; 
And  six  or  eight  books  that  I  wrote  myself, 

To  look  at  which,  even,  I'm  half  afraid; 
They  brought  me  more  labor  and  pleasure 
than  pelf. 
And  are  clamoring  still  because  they're 
not  paid. 
But  these  raw  levies  remain  still  faithful, 

Because  they  know  that  volumes  old 
Stand  by  me,  although  their  eyes,  dim  and 
wraithful. 
Remind  me  they  seldom  at  profit  were  sold. 

133 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


So  I  say,  be  they  splendid  or  tatterdemalion, 
If  only  you  know  what  they  mean  by  their 
looks, 
You  will  never  find  a  better  battalion 
Of  soldiers  to  serve  you  than  well-tried 
books. 

George  Pabsons  Lathrop. 


OLD  FRIENDS,  OLD  BOOKS 

/^LD  friends,  old  books  are  surely  best, 
Already  long  they've  stood  each  test, — 
In  times  of  stress  or  indolence 
Have  ministered  to  soul  and  sense, 

With  grace  responsive  to  each  quest. 

Aye,  every  whim  by  us  possest, 
When  winds  blow  east  or  winds  blow  west, 
They  kindly  humor — not  incense — 

Old  friends,  old  books ! 

The  new  may  touch  with  keener  zest 
"NVlien  we  with  ennui  are  opprest. 
But  only  briefly ;  turning  thence, 
With  reawakened  confidence, 
We  seek — for  peace,  for  joy,  for  rest — 

Old  friends,  old  books ! 
Charles  R.  Williams. 

^84 


Three  Good  Things 


THREE  GOOD  THINGS 

"Bona  in  terra  txia  inveni — 
Libros,  Venerem,  Vinnm." 

■THREE  good  things  I've  thanked  the 
gods  for — 

Play,  and  love,  and  wine, 
So  by  Tiber  sang  my  poet ; 

Would  the  song  were  mine ! 

Yet  methinks  I  would  not  turn  it 

Just  the  Roman  way, 
But  for  ludum  say  read  libros, 

Books  are  more  than  play ! 

Through  the  togaed  Latin  trembles 

Laughter  half  divine : 
Flash  the  dice  beside  the  column ; 

Rosy  flagons  shine. 

I,  for  gleams  of  yellow  Tiber, 

Down  my  garden  way, 
See  a  water  blue  and  beaming 

In  the  northern  day ; 

Ovid,  Meleager,  Omar, 

In  the  orchard  shade, 
With  a  joy  that  gurgles  gently, 

And  a  white-armed  maid. 
135 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Three  good  things  I  thank  the  gods 
for — 
Books,  and  love,  and  wine! 
So,  my  Poet,  singing  later, 
Would  have  run  your  line ! 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts. 


AIMLESS  READING 

DOOKS   are   not  seldom  talismans  and 

spells, 
By  which  the  magic  art  of  shrewder  wits 
Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  enthralled. 
Some  to  the  fascination  of  a  name 
Surrender  judgment,  hoodwinked.     Some 

the  style 
Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 
Of  error  leads  them,  by  a  tune  entranced. 
While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear 
The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought, 
And  swallowing  therefore,  without  pause  or 

choice. 
The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 

WlIiLIAM  COWPBB. 


iSd 


Assignment  of  Binders 


THE  BIBLIOMANIAC'S  ASSIGNMENT 
OF  BINDERS 

IF  I  could  bring  the  dead  to-day, 

I  would  your  soul  with  wonder  fill 
By  pointing  out  a  novel  way 
For  bibliopegistic  skill. 

My  Walton,  Trautz  should  take  in  hand. 
Or  else  I'd  give  him  o'er  to  Hering ; 

Matthews  should  make  the  Gospels  stand 
A  dateless  warning  to  the  erring. 

The  history  of  the  Inquisition, 

"With  all  its  diabolic  train 
Of  cruelty  and  superstition, 

Should  fitly  be  arrayed  by  Payne. 

A  book  of  dreams  by  Bedford  clad, 
A  papal  history  by  De  Rome, 

Should  make  the  sense  of  fitness  glad 
In  every  bibliomaniac's  home. 

Afl  our  first  mother's  folly  cost 

Her  sex  so  dear,  and  makes  men  grieve, 
So  Milton's  plaint  of  Eden  lost 
Would  be  appropriate  for  Eve. 

187 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Hay  day  would  make  "One  summer"  be 
Much  more  attractive  to  the  view ; 

While  General  Wolfe's  biography 
Should  be  the  work  of  Pasd6loup. 

For  lives  of  dwarfs  like  Thomas  Thumb 

Petit's  the  man  by  Nature  made, 
And  when  Munchausen  strikes  us  dumb 
It  is  by  means  of  Gascon  aid. 

Thus  would  I  the  great  binders  blend 
In  harmony  with  work  before  'em. 

And  so  Riviere  I  would  commend 
To  Turner's  "Liber  Fluviorum." 

Ikving  Bbownb. 


188 


From  Phyllis 

FEOM  PHYLLIS 

Pv  BAREST,  I  read  the  books  you  sent,  be- 
cause 
You  sent  them — but  they're  far  too  grave 
for  me. 
I  like  not  serious  stories,  nor  wise  saws, 

Chilling  my  youth  with  fear  of  ills  to  be. 
But  be  not  angry,  since  at  your  request 
I  read  them  all,  and  found  the  love-tale  best. 

Yet  that  was  sad,  too,  and  one  sentence 
there 
Tried  and  tormented  me — that's  why  I 
write. 
You've  read  the  book.    Do  you  remember 
where 
The  hero  was  made  prisoner  in  the  fight? 
The  heroine,  to  save  her  lover's  life, 
Eenounced  him  and  became  his  rival's  wife. 

And  he  reproached  her:   "  Were  I  in  your 
place 
My  Ufe  without  you  had  been  little  worth." 
"I'd  live,"  she  said,  "through  pain  and 
through  disgrace 
To  know  you  lived,  though  dead  to  me  on 
earth." 
Dearest,  this  troubled  me,  because,  you  see, 
I'd  rather  die  than  have  you  dead  to  me. 
Cakoline  Dueb. 
139 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


BOOKS 

A   PRECIOUS  treasure  had  I  long  pos- 

sessed, 
A  little  yellow,  canvas-covered  book, 
A  slender  abstract  of  the  Arabian  tales ; 
And,  from  companions  in  a  ncAv  abode. 
When  first  I  learnt  that  this  dear  prize  of 

mine 
Was   but    a   block   hewn   from   a  mighty 

quarry — 
That  there  were  four  large  volumes,  laden 

all 
With  kindred  matter,  'twas  to  me,  in  truth, 
A  promise  scarcely  earthly.    Instantly, 
With  one  not  richer  than  myself,  I  made 
A  covenant  that  each  should  lay  aside 
The  moneys  he  possessed,  and  hoard  up 

more, 
Till  our  joint  savings  had  amassed  enough 
To  make  this  book  our  own.    Through  sev- 
eral months, 
In  spite  of  all  temptation,  we  preserved 
Religiously  that  vow ;  but  firmness  failed. 
Nor  were  we  ever  masters  of  our  wish. 

William  Wordsworth. 


140 


How  a  Bibliomaniac  Binds 


HOW  A  BIBLIOMANIAC  BINDS  HIS 
BOOKS 

I'D  like  my  favorite  books  to  bind 

So  that  their  outward  dress 
To  every  bibliomaniac's  mind  | 

Their  contents  should  express. 

Napoleon's  life  should  glare  in  red, 

John  Calvin's  hfe  in  blue ; 
Thus  they  would  typify  bloodshed 

And  sour  religion's  hue. 

T3ie  prize-ring  record  of  the  past 
Must  be  in  blue  and  black ; 

While  any  color  that  is  fast 
Would  do  for  Derby  track. 

The  Popes  in  scarlet  well  may  go ; 

In  jealous  green,  Othello ; 
In  grey,  Old  Age  of  Cicero, 

And  London  Cries  in  yellow. 

My  Walton  should  his  gentle  art 

In  salmon  best  express, 
And  Penn  and  Fox  the  friendly  heart 

In  quiet  drab  confess. 

141 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


statistics  of  the  lumber  trade 
Should  be  embraced  in  boards, 

While  muslin  for  the  inspired  Maid 
A  fitting  garb  affords. 

Intestine  wars  I'd  clothe  in  vellum, 
While  pig-skin  Bacon  grasps, 

And  flat  romances  such  as  "Pelham" 
Should  stand  in  calf  with  clasps. 

BUnd-tooled  should  be  blank  verse  and 
rhyme 

And  prose  of  epic  Milton ; 
But  Newgate  Calendar  of  Crime 

I'd  lavishly  dab  gilt  on. 

The  edges  of  a  sculptor's  life 

May  fitly  marbled  be, 
But  sprinkle  not,  for  fear  of  strife, 
.  A  Baptist  history. 

Crimea's  war-like  facts  and  dates 

Of  fragrant  Russia  smell ; 
The  subjugated  Barbary  States 

In  crushed  Morocco  dwell. 

But  oh  I  that  one  I  hold  so  dear 

Should  be  arrayed  so  cheap 
Gives  me  a  qualm ;  I  sadly  fear 

My  Lamb  must  be  half -sheep ! 

Irving  Browne. 

142 


Bookworm  Does  Not  Care 


THE  BOOKWORM  DOES  NOT  CARE 
FOR  NATURE 

T  FEEL  no  need  of  nature's  flowers — 
Of  flowers  of  rhetoric  1  have  store ; 
I  do  not  miss  the  balmy  showers — 
When  books  are  dry  I  o'er  them  pore. 

"NVhy  should  I  sit  upon  a  stile 
And  cause  my  aged  bones  to  ache, 

When  I  can  all  the  hours  beguile 
With  any  style  that  I  would  take? 

Why  should  I  haunt  a  purUng  stream. 

Or  fish  in  miasmatic  brook? 
O'er  Euclid's  angles  I  can  dream, 

And  recreation  find  in  Hook. 

Why  should  I  jolt  upon  a  horse 
And  after  wretched  vermin  roam. 

When  I  can  choose  an  easier  course 
With  Fox  and  Hare  and  Hunt  at  home? 

What  if  some  vicious  bull  were  loose, 
Or  fractious  cow  pursue  my  path? 

A  tamer  Bulwer  I  would  choose, 
A  Cowper  destitute  of  wrath. 


143 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Why  ehould  I  watch  the  swallows  flit, 
And  run  the  risk  of  butting  ram? 

A  Swift  upon  my  shelves  Hazlitt, 
I  need  not  run  from  waggish  Lamb. 

Why  should  I  scratch  my  precious  skin 
By  crawling  through  a  hawthorn  hedge, 

When  Hawthorne,  raking  up  my  sin, 
Stands  tempting  on  the  nearest  ledge? 

No  need  that  I  should  take  the  trouble 
To  go  abroad  to  walk  or  ride, 

For  I  can  sit  at  home  and  double 
Quite  up  with  pain  from  Akenside. 

Ibving  Bkownb. 


\U 


My  Books 


MY  BOOKS 

VOU  ask  me  who  my  best  friends  are — 

The  ones  whose  love  I  value  most. 
I  pause  to  make  a  wise  reply, 
For  friends  are  mine  from  low  and  high, 
Whose  characters  shine  hke  a  star. 
(You  will  forgive  the  boast.) 

This  one  for  intellect  I  prize : 
No  depth  for  that  too  deep  to  sound ; 
No  height  for  that  to  scale  too  steep ; 
No  field  so  broad  it  can  not  sweep, 
As  swift  as  winged  arrow  flies. 
Its  area  at  a  round. 

This  other  to  my  heart  appeals 
By  her  deep  fund  of  common-sense. 
Life  through  her  eyes  is  solid  fact. 
Avoid  it?  No !  by  shift  nor  tact. 
Before  no  idol  vague  she  kneels ; 
Dreams'  veil  is  full  of  rents. 

And  this  ?  Her  Ufe  is  radiance  soft ; 
Her  heav'n-bom,  earth-imprisoned  soul 
Is  turned  to  music  of  the  spheres, 
No  discords  mingle — cares  nor  fears — 
Her  spirit  soars  and  soars  aloft, 
Revolves  'round  heaven's  pole. 
10  145 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 

And  yet,  when  earth-dust  clings  and  clods, 
And  blindmg  grows  the  storm  of  life, 
What  friends  my  drooping  spirits  raise 
As  these — my  books  ?  To  them  the  praise 
For  constancy  like  to  a  god's. 
With  deepest  comfort  rife ! 

Alice  Sawtelle  Eansall. 


WITH  PIPE  AND  BOOK 

"VKTITH  Pipe  and  Book  at  close  of  day, 
O !  what  is  sweeter,  mortal,  say ! 

It  matters  not  what  book  on  knee. 

Old  Izaak  or  the  Odyssey, 
It  matters  not  meerschaum  or  clay. 

And  though  one's  eyes  will  dream  astray, 
And  lips  forget  to  sue  or  sway, 
It  is  "enough  to  merely  Be," 
With  Pipe  and  Book. 

What  though  our  modem  skies  be  grey, 
As  bards  aver,  I  will  not  pray 
For  "soothing  Death"  to  succor  me, 
But  ask  thus  much,  0  Fate,  of  thee,— 
A  little  longer  here  to  stay 
With  Pipe  and  Book. 

EicHABD  Lb  Gallibnnb. 


146 


A  Collector's  Catalogue 


A  COLLECTOR'S  CATALOGUE 

IVyi  Y  catalogue,  my  catalogue, 
It  is  my  heart's  delight ! 
Of  all  my  "prints"  it  is  the  best, 

The  only  one  just  right. 
But  it's  a  list  of  noble  names 

A-standing  side  by  side. 
I've  had  it  printed  by  De  Vinne 

With  bibUographic  pride. 

To  think  my  Marc  Antonio, 

The  gem  of  my  collection, 
— Or  rather  it  would  be  the  gem 

But  for  this  low  connection — 
Should  have  the  hated  name  Ant.  SaL 

Engraved  right  down  below ! 
Which  will  disfigure  any  print, 

As  print  collectors  know. 

Then,  too,  my  master  of  the  Die 

Looks  like  the  last  one  printed, 
While  my  most  wondrous  Wohlgemuth 

Is  spoiled  by  being  tinted. 
My  Sadlers  all  have  margins  cUpped, 

My  Visschers  are  laid  down. 
My  Hollar  has  had  such  abuse, 

Makes  a  collector  frown. 
147 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Perhaps  my  Martin  Schingauer, 

My  Rembrandts  rare  and  grand, 
Are  like  my  Albrecht  Dfirerr— 

Done  by  a  modem  hand ! 
My  Vand  den  Veldes  are  preciouB, 

But  only  so  to  me, 
For  they  are  not  by  Adrian 

But  just  by  Jan  den  VI 

So,  I  still  love  my  catalogue, 

It  is  my  heart's  delight, 
Of  all  my  "prints"  it  is  the  best, 

The  only  one  just  right. 
I  love  to  read  its  noble  names, 

And  send  it  far  and  wide. 
I've  had  it  printed  by  De  Vinne, 

With  bibliographic  pride. 

The  Hartfobd  Post. 


148 


The  Library 


THE  LIBRARY 

[Sung  at  the  opening  of  the  Haverhill  Library, 
November  11,  1875.] 

*  4 1  ET  there  be  light!"  God  spake  of  old, 

And  over  chaos  dark  and  cold, 
And  through  the  dead  and  formless  frame 
Of  nature,  life  and  order  came. 

Faint  was  the  light  at  first  that  shone 
On  giant  fern  and  mastodon, 
On  half-formed  plant  and  beast  of  prey, 
And  man  as  rude  and  wild  as  they. 

Age  after  age,  like  waves,  o'erran 
The  earth,  uplifting  brute  and  man ; 
And  mind,  at  length,  in  symbols  dark 
Its  meaning  traced  on  stone  and  bark. 

On  leaf  of  palm,  on  sedge- wrought  roll ; 
On  plastic  clay  and  leathern  scroll, 
Man  wrote  his  thoughts,  the  ages  passed, 
And  lo !  the  Press  was  found  at  last  I 

Then  dead  souls  woke ;  the  thoughts  of  men 
Whose  bones  were  dust  revived  again ; 
The  cloister's  silence  found  a  tongue, 
Old  prophets  spake,  old  poets  sung. 

149 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


And  here,  to-day,  the  dead  look  down 
The  Kings  of  mind  again  we  crown ; 
"We  hear  the  voices  lost  so  long, 
The  sage's  word,  the  sibyl's  song. 

Here  Greek  and  Roman  find  themselves 
Alive  along  these  crowded  shelves ; 
And  Shakespeare  treads  again  his  stage, 
And  Chaucer  paints  anew  his  age. 

As  if  some  Pantheon's  marbles  broke 
Their  stony  trance,  and  live  and  spoke. 
Life  thrills  along  the  alcoved  hall, 
The  lords  of  thought  await  our  call ! 

John  Grebnlbaf  Whittier. 


150 


Religio  Medici 


RELIGIO  MEDICI 


A  BOOK?  A  solemn  Temple  of  the  Mind, 
Dim  with  sweet  smoke,  where  by  the 
altar  dwells 
Music,  sole  priestess;    she  who  in  sad 
shells 
Murmurs  the  rune  God  whispered  to  the 
wind 
Breathed  from  His  throne,  which  stars 
and  spirit  impels. 


What   sage   dreams   in   this   vestibule  of 
heaven  ? 
Seer,  mystic,  saint, — or  wandering  Earth's 

lost  child. 
Babbling   quaint   heresies  whereat  God 
smiled 
Ere  Peter  wept,  or  the  thief  died  forgiven : 
Old  faith  with  elder  fears  half-reconciled? 


161 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


III 

Rich-voiced     Chaldean,    whose     majestic 
speech, 
"Far  above  singing,"  wakes  the  inward 

ear, 
And  haunts,  with  ancient  anthems  grave 
and  clear. 
The  heart's  grey  cloister,  thy  ecstatic  reach 
Drew  some  rare  splendor  from  the  em- 
pyreal sphere. 

IV 

Ah !  might  one  grow  the  Titian  of  a  thought, 
The  Handel  of  a  soul's  most  deep  desire, 
In  words  like  thine,  whose  golden  wings 
aspire. 
Till,  pui^ed  and  flaming  in  the  sun  they 
sought. 
They  "  live  immortal  in  the  arms  of  fire." 
John  Todhunter. 


1C2 


In  An  Old  Library 


IN  AN  OLD  LIBRARY 


UERE  the  still  air 

Broods  over  drowsy  nooks 
Of  ancient  learning :  one  is  'ware, 

As  in  a  mystic  aisle 
Of  lingering  incense,  of  the  balm  of  books. 
So  nard  from  cerecloths  of  Egyptian  kings 
Solemnized  once  the  sepulchres  of  Nile. 


Here  quietness, 
A  ghostly  presence,  dwells 
Among  rich  tombs ;  here  doth  possess 

With  an  ecstatic  dread 
The  intruder  seeking  old-world  oracles 
In  books,  centuries  of  books,  centuries  of 
tombs 
That  hold  the  spirits  of  the  crownM  dead. 


153 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


III 


Go  softly !    Here 
Sleep  fair  embalmed  souls 
In  piled-up  monuments,  in  their  sere 

And  blazoned  robes  of  fame, 
Conquerors  of  Time.    Whisper  to  these 
grey  scrolls, 
Call  Poet,  Sage,  Romancer,  Chronicler, 
And  every  one  will  answer  to  his  name. 


IV 


Man  walks  the  earth 
The  quintessence  of  dust : 
Books,  from  the  ashes  of  his  mirth 

Madness  and  sorrow,  seem 
To  draw  the  elixir  of  some  rarer  gust ; 
Or,  like  the  Stone  of  Alchemy,  transmute 
Life's  cheating  dross  to  golden  truth  of 
dream. 

John  Todhuntkr. 


164 


The  Attentive  Bookseller 


THE  ATTENTIVE  BOOKSELLER 

/^H!  why  does  the  bookseller  follow  my 
^     path 

Like  a  hound  on  the  tiger's  track  ? 
His  smile  so  commercial  awakens  my  wrath, 

And  I  turn  a  non-intercourse  back. 

Does  he  think  that  his  volumes  will  disap- 
pear, 

Unless  he  shall  keep  me  in  view  ? 
For  his  "up-to-date"  issues  he  need  not  fear, 

I  loathe  every  book  that  is  new. 

I'm  looking  for  something  he  never  has  seen, 
Or  perhaps  for  just  nothing  at  all, 

In  hope  that  some  treasures  my  vision  may 
glean 
As  it  ranges  the  cloth-covered  wall. 

"May  I  wait  on  you,  sir?"  said  a  maid  at 
my  side. 
For  the  twentieth  time  in  a  store ; 
"No,  madam,  I  thank  you,"  I  coldly  re- 
plied, 
"I  am  married" — I  heard  nothing  more. 

But   the   bitterest   pill   that  is  ever   pre- 
scribed, 
That  throws  me  almost  in  a  fit, 
Is  showing,  when  everything  good  is  denied, 
A  volume  that  I  have  just  writ ! 

Ikvinq  Beownb. 
165 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


TOAST  TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM 
An  East  Anglian  Echo  Chorus 

CHORUS 

TN  this  red  wine,  where  Memory's  eyes 

seem  glowing 
Of  days  when  wines  were  bright  by  Ouse 

and  Cam, 
And    Norfolk's    foaming    nectar  glittered, 

showing 
What  beard  of  gold  John  Barleycorn  was 

growing, 
We  drink  to  thee  whose  lore  is  Nature's 

knowing, 

Omar  Khayyam ! 

I 
Star-gazer  who  canst  read,  when  Night  is 
strowing 
Her  scriptured  orbs  on  Time's  frail  ori- 

flamme. 
Nature's  proud  blazon :  "Who  shall  bless 
or  damn? 
life,  Death,  and  Doom  are  all  of  my  be- 
stowing!" 

CHORUS 

Omar  Khayydm ! 
156 


Toast  to  Omar  Khayyam 


II 

Master  whose  strain  of  balm  and  music, 
flowing 
Through  Persian  gardens,  widened  till  it 

swam — 
A  fragrant  tide  no  bank  of  Time  shall 
dam — 
Through  Suffolk  meads  where  gorse  and  may 
were  blowing, 

CHOKUS 

Omar  Khayydm  I 


III 

Who  blent  thy  song  with  sound  of  cattle 
lowing, 
And  caw  of  rooks  that  perch  on  ewe  and 

ram, 
And  hymn  of  lark,  and  bleat  of  orphan 
lamb. 
And  Bwish  of  scythe  in  Bredfield's  dewy 
mowing? 

CHORUS 

Omar  Khayydm! 


157 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


IV 

'Twas  Fitz,  "Old  Fitz,"  whose  knowledge, 
farther  going 
Than  lore  of  Omar,   "Wisdom's  starry 

Cham," 
Made  richer  than  thine  opulent  epigram ; 
Sowed  seed  from  seed  of  thine  immortal 
sowing. 

CHORUS 

Omar  Khayydm  I 

In  this  red  wine,  where  Memory's  eyes 
seem  glowing 
Of  days  when  wines  were  bright  by  Ouse 
and  Cam, 
And   Norfolk's   foaming   nectar  glittered, 

showing 
What  beard  of  gold  John  Barleycorn  was 

growing. 
We  drink  to  thee  whose  lore  is  Nature's 
knowing, 

Omar  Khayyam ! 
Theodorb  Watts-Dunton. 


168 


His  Favorite  Book 


HIS  FAVORITE  BOOK 

CPEAKIN'  of   books— they's  some  that 
looks 

Invitin'  as  that  strawstack  yunder, 
Whur  the  cattle  air,  in  the  barayard  there, 

A-puU'n  and  chaw'n  away  like  thunder. 
And  in  my  day  I've  chawed  that  way 

Hull  hours  at  books,when  thur  wasn't  very 
Much  work  to  do ;  but  I  tell  you 

I  like  the  old  big  dictionary ! 

It's  in  that  chair,  a-settin'  where 

My  youngest  boy  was  usin'  of  it 
At  dinner  time — you  seen  him  climb 

Upon  it  then?  That's  why  I  love  it. 
Its  leaves  are  torn ;  the  hide  is  worn 

Clean  through  in  spots,  upon  its  covers ; 
But  when  I  set,  with  both  eyes  shet, 

It  gives  me  dreams  jest  like  some  lover's ! 

And  I  go  clear  back  forty  year. 

And,  jest  a  little  hungry  feller. 
Set  perched  again  on  that  same  plain 
Old  book — then  fresh  and  young  and  yel- 
ler — 
At  dinner,  and  my  mother's  hand 

Is  toyin'  with  my  curls  contrary; 
And  that  is  why,  I  guess,  that  I 
Like  best  the  old  big  dictionary ! 

The  Chicago  Bbcobd. 
169 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


THE  PLEASANT  WORLD  OF  BOOKS 

TpHERE  are  who  find  their  happiness  in 
strolling  near  and  far, 

As  if  perchance  their  birth  had  been  be- 
neath some  errant  star, 

The  trackless  desert  beckons  them,  they 
scale  the  mountain  peak, 

And  ever  just  beyond  them  see,  some  glad- 
ness coy  to  seek ; 

For  me,  I  sit  beside  my  fire,  and  with  be- 
nignant looks 

Frorn  dear  familiar  shelves  they  smile,  my 
pleasant  friends,  the  books. 

A  world  of  sweetest  company,  these  well- 
beloved  ones  wait 

For  any  mood,  for  any  hour;  they  keep  a 
courteous  state. 

Serene  and  unperturbed  amid  the  ruflles  of 
my  day, 

They  are  the  bread  my  spirit  craves,  they 
bless  my  toihng  Avay. 

A  pleasant  world  is  theirs,  wherein,  though 

battles  wax  and  wane, 
There  rolls  the  sound  of  triumph,  and  there 

dwells  surcease  of  pain. 
160 


The  Pleasant  World  of  Books 


On  pages  sparkling  as  the  dawn  forever 

breathes  and  glows 
Through  ages  red  with  patriot  blood,  white 

freedom's  stainless  rose. 

In  this  fair  world  of  calmest  skies,  I  meet 

the  martyr's  palm, 
There  float  to  it  dear  melodies  from  coasts 

of  heavenly  balm ; 
All  comfort  here,  all  strength,  all  faith,  all 

bloom  of  wisdom  lives. 
And  be  the  day's  need  what  it  may,  gome 

boon  this  wide  world  gives. 

The  freedom  of  the  city  where  one  walks  in 
crowds,  alone, 

The  silence  of  the  upland,  where  one  climbs 
anear  the  throne. 

The  blitheness  of  the  morning,  and  the  sol- 
emn hush  of  night. 

Are  in  this  pleasant  world  of  books,  for  one 
who  reads  aright. 

Here,  pure  and  sharp  the  pictured  spire  its 

cleaving  point  uplifts. 
There,    swept   by   stormy  winds   of   fate, 

time's  sands  are  tossed  in  drifts. 
And  I  who  sit  beside  the  fire  am  heir  of 

time  and  sense. 
My  book  to  me  the  angel  of  Grod's  sleepless 

providence. 
11  161 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Who  will,  may  choose  to  wander  far  over 

sea  and  land, 
For  me  the  table  and  the  lamp  extend  a 

friendlier  hand ; 
And  I  am  blessed  beyond  compare  while 

with  benignant  looks 
From  home's  familiar  shelves  they  smile, 

my  pleasant  world  of  books. 

Makgaket  E.  Sangstek. 


162 


A  Book  of  Poems 


A  BOOK  OF  POEMS 

pOND'RING  o'er  a  gilded  volume 
Rich  with  gems,  I  am  to-night, 
Looking  for  the  sweetest  column, 

Scanning  for  some  rays  of  light. 
Here  are  poets  from  the  distance 

With  the  softest  lyric  rhyme, 
Calling  back  into  existence 

Sweet  chords  lost  in  lapse  of  time. 

Here  portrayed  are  silent  faces — 

Silent  lips  and  silent  eyes — 
Where  my  finger  deftly  traces, 

Looking  for  some  glad  surprise — 
Looking  for  some  friend  who's  drifting 

Out  upon  the  Western  wold. 
For  companions  now  uplifting 

Drops  of  ink  for  drops  of  gold. 

Lo  I  inwrought  like  fibres  golden 

In  yon  leaf  upon  the  tree. 
Are  these  stanzas,  new  and  olden, 

Penned  in  chants  of  melody. 
Quaintest  rhet'ric  penned,  but  splendid 

In  simphcity  and  truth — 
Facts  and  fancies ;  as  blended 

By  the  aged  bard  and  youth. 
163 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


As  I  turn  the  snowy  pages, 

Each  enframed  with  golden  wire, 
Mystic  sounds  come  back  from  ages. 

Strains  from  Moore  and  Milton's  lyre. 
Dreams  of  Shakespeare's  musing  rambles, 

Thoughts  of  Goldsmith  and  his  fife, 
Odes  of  Pope  and  Scott  and  Campbell 

Flash  across  the  path  of  life. 

And  when  sleepily  I  fold  them — 

Fold  the  rhymers  back  in  place, 
Fancy's  mind  can  quite  behold  them, 

As  the  dureful  hymns  they  trace. 
Some  are  mothers  with  devotion 

In  their  sonnets  of  to-day, 
Others  sing  of  field  and  ocean, 

Mount  and  glen — and  sweet  their  lay. 
William  R.  Jacobs. 


164 


Bookman's  Complaint  of  Lady 


A  BOOKMAN'S  COMPLAINT  OF  HIS 
LADY 

|Wl  Y  lady  ofttimea  chideth  me 

Because  I  love  so  much  to  be 
Amid  my  honest  folios. 
"Thou  lovest  more  to  pore  on  those" — 
In  pretty  scorn  she  sometimes  saith — 
"Than  on  thy  mistress'  eyes,  i'  faith! 
Small  good  true  lovers  gain  meseems 
From  dust  and  must  of  printed  reams." 
Ah !  would  that  I  could  make  her  see, 
"What  is  so  clear  to  thee  and  me, 
How  much  our  happy  love-life  owes 
To  those  poor  honest  folios. 
She  Uttle  dreams  that  hidden  there 
I  found  a  glass  that  mirrored  her, 
A  magic  glass  which  showed  her  me 
As  my  own  soul's  ideal  She, 
Long  ere  we  met  and  wedded  eyes 
Or  made  a  soft  exchange  of  sighs. 
Nor  knoweth  she  that  thence  I  drew 
The  thought  that,  sweet  as  morning  dew 
Changeth  the  leaden  life  to  gold, 
And  keepeth  Love  from  growing  old. 
Nor  may  I  tell  what  things  beside 
Within  those  leathern  covers  hide. 
How  would  she  scorn  my  small  deceit, 
Dare  I  confess  that  fine  conceit 
165 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


That  pleased  her  so  the  other  day, 
Was  from  an  old-world  roundelay ; 
And  many  another  charm  and  grace 
That  keeps  Love  young  in  spite  of  days, 
Was  but  a  bloom  that  long  had  lain 
'Mid  yellow  pages  young  again. 

BiCHABD  Lb  Gallieknb. 


166 


The  Book  Collector 


THE  BOOK  COLLECTOR 

"  The  Shyp  of  Folys  of  the  Worlde." 

CO  in  likewise  of  Bookes  I  have  store ; 
But  few  I  reade,  and   fewer   under- 
stande: 
I  f  olowe  not  their  doctrine,  nor  their  lore : 
It  is  enough  to  bear  a  booke  in  hande; 
It  were  too  much  to  be  in  such  a  lande, 
For  to  be  bounde  to  loke  within  the  booke : 
I  am  content  on  the  fayre  coveryngto  looke. 
Still  I  am  busy  bookes  assembling ; 
For  to  have  plentie  it  is  a  pleasaunt  thing ; 
In  my  conceyt  to  have  them  ay  in  hand : 
But  what  they  meane  do  I  not  understande. 
But  yet  I  have  them  in  great  reverence, 
And  honor,  saving  them  from  filth  and 
ordure, 
By  often  brushing,  and  much  diligence : 
Full  goodly  bounde  in  pleasaunt  cover- 
ture. 
Of  dames,  sattin,  orels  of  velvet  pure : 
I  keepe  them  sure,  fearing  lest  they  should 

be  lost. 
For  in  them  is  the  cunning  wherein  I  me 
boast. — 

ie7 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


But  if  it  fortune  that  any  leamM  man 
Within  my  house  fall  to  disputation, 
I  drawe  the  curtaynes  to  ehewe  my  bokea 
then, 
That  they  of  my  cunning  should  make 

probation. — 
I  love  not  to  fall  in  alterication : — 
And  while,  the  common,  my  bookes  I  turne 

and  winde, 
For  all  is  in  them,  and  nothing  in  my  minde. 
Alexai^ssb  Babclay. 


168 


Thoughts  in  a  Library 


THOUGHTS  IN  A  LIBRARY 

C  PEAK  low !  tread  softly  through  these 
"^       halls; 

Here  genius  lives  enshrined ; 
Here  reign  in  silent  majesty 

The  monarchs  of  the  mind. 

A  mighty  spirit  host  they  come 

From  every  age  and  clime ; 
Above  the  buried  wrecks  of  years 

They  breast  the  tide  of  time. 

And  in  their  presence-chamber  here 
They  hold  their  regal  state, 

And  round  them  throng  a  noble  train, 
The  gifted  and  the  great. 

O  child  of  Earth !  when  round  thy  path 

The  storms  of  life  arise, 
And  when  thy  brothers  pass  thee  by 

With  stem,  unloving  eye, 

Here  shall  the  poets  chant  for  thee 
Their  sweetest,  loftiest  lays. 

And  prophets  wait  to  guide  thy  steps 
In  Wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 

169 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Come,  with  these  God-anointed  kings 

Be  thou  companion  here ; 
And  in  the  mighty  realm  of  mind 

Thou  shalt  go  forth  a  peer  I 

Anne  C.  Lynch  Botta. 


SONNET  ON  PARTING  WITH  HIS 
BOOKS 

A  S  one  who  destined  from  his  friends  to 
^       part 
Regrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their 
smile, 
And  tempers,  as  he  may,  affliction's  dart; 
Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art, 
Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  be- 
guile 
My  tedious  hours  and  lighten  every  toil, 
I  now  resign  you !  Nor  with  fainting  heart ; 
For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours. 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 

And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore ; 
When,    freed    from   earth,    unlimited   its 

powers, 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion 
hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 
William  Roscoe. 
170 


The  Library  of  York  Cathedral 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  YORK  CATHEDRAL 

THERE  shalt  thou  find  the  volumes  that 

contain 
All  of  the  ancient  Fathers  who  remain ; 
There   all  the   Latin  writers   make  their 

home 
With  those  that  glorious  Greece  transferred 

to  Rome, 
The   Hebrews   draw   from   their   celestial 

stream, 
And  Africa  is  bright  with  learning's  beam. 

Here  shines  what  Jerome,  Ambrose,  Hilary 

thought. 
Or  Athanasius  and  Augustine  wrought. 
Orosius,  Leo,  Gregory  the  Great, 
Near  Basil  and  Fulgentiua  coruscate. 

Grave  Cassiodorus  and  John  Chrysostom 
Next  Master  Bede  and  learned   Aldhelm 

come. 
While  Victorinus  and  Boethius  stand 
With  Pliny  and  Pompeius  close  at  hand. 


171 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Wise  Aristotle  looks  on  Tully  near, 
Sedulius  and  Juvencus  next  appear, 
Then  come  Albinus,  Clement,  Prosper  too, 
Paulinas  and  Arator.    Next  we  view 
Lactantius,  Fortunatus.    Eanged  in  line 
Virgilius  Maro,  Statins,  Lucan,  shine. 

Donatus,  Priscian,  Phobus,  Phocas,  start 
The  roll  of  masters  in  grammatic  art. 
Entychius,  Servius,  Pompey,  each  extend 
The  list.    Comminian  brings  it  to  an  end. 

There  shalt  thou  find,  0  reader,  many  more 
Famed  for  their  style,  the  masters  of  old 

lore, 
Whose  many  volumes  singly  to  rehearse 
Were  far  too  tedious  for  our  present  verse. 
Alcuin,  about  780,  A.  D. 


172 


Verses  in  a  Library 


VERSES  IN  A  LIBRARY 

I 

AN  APPEAL 

f^  IVE  me  that  book  whose  power's  such 
^"^    That  I  forget  the  north  wind's  touch . 

Give  me  that  book  that  brings  to  me 
Forgetfulness  of  what  I  be. 

Give  me  that  book  that  takes  my  life 
In  seeming  far  from  all  its  strife. 

Give  me  that  book  wherein  each  page 
Destroys  my  sense  of  creeping  age. 

Give  me  that  book  that  makes  me  think 
I've  stores  of  wealth,  instead  of  ink, 

And  bills  unpaid,  and  pens  and  glue, 
With  not  a  line  in  mind  that's  new. 

Give  me  that  book  -  and  make  it  long 
Enough  to  laugh  for  aye ;  this  song 

To  him  who  sends  I'll  dedicate 
My  book  of  verse  entitled  "Fate :" 

A  garland  sweet  of  sonnets  grand, 
For  sale  on  every  newsman's  stand ; 
173 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Or,  through  the  mail,  postpaid,  you  know, 
Half  boards,  top-gilded,  16mo. 

II 

A  CURSE 

Confound  you,  Mr.  O.  Khayydm ! 
Confound  you,  Addison  and  Lamb ! 

Confound  you,  Milton,  Herrick,  Gray ! 
Confound  you,  Jonson ;  blast  you,  Gay ! 

Confusion,  Shakespeare,  to  your  dust. 
And  Bums  and  Byron,  be  ye  cussed ! 

Confound  you,  Thackeray  and  Scott, 
And  Dickens,  and  old  Parson  Lott ! 

Confound  ye  for  a  selfish  band, 
For  that  ye  did  not  stay  the  hand, 

And  leave,  like  decent  men  and  true, 
A  thing  or  two  for  me  to  do ! 

It's  tough  for  one  in  these  drear  days 
To  find  you've  "cornered"  all  the  bays. 
John  Kendeick  Bangs, 


174 


The  Book  Auction 


THE  BOOK  AUCTION. 

*  4  LFOW  much  am  I  bid?"  said  the  spry 
auctioneer, 

"For  the  songs  of  a  well  known  bard?  " 
The  bard,  incog.,  who  was  hovering  near, 

Looked  up  and  his  breath  came  hard. 

"I  am  offered  a  dime! — ^just  think  of  it, 
gents! — 
For  these  '  Songs  of  the  Dewy  Dawn ! ' 

Are  you  all  done  bidding?  Ten !  ten  cents — 
Ten  cents  and — agoing — and  gone ! " 

"You   don't  know    elegant    books    from 
trash!" 

Joked  the  jubilant  auctioneer; 
The  incog,  author  bit  his  mustache 

And  felt  confoundedly  queer. 

"  A  beautiful  copy  of  Shakespeare's  Pomes  I 
How  much  do  I  hear?  Look  alive ! 

A  right  nice  work  to  embelUsh  your  homes ! 
Five  cents !   Sold  to  cash  for  five !  " 

The  incog,  singer  twinkled  his  eye, 
And  inwardly  said,  with  a  thrill : 
"  American  poetry  don't  sell  high, 
But  I'd  hate  to  go  cheap  as  old  Bill." 
W.  H.  Vknablk. 
175 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


IN  ARCADY 


r^  rVE  me  the  pleasure  of  a  book, 
^'^     An  ample  shade,  a  running  brook, 
A  piping  bird,  and  splashing  trout, 
And  wild  flowers  shining  all  about ; 
Then  even  kings  would  envy  me, 
So  full  of  joy  my  life  would  be. 


With  cheerful  heart  and  cloudless  brain. 

No  breath  of  care,  no  touch  of  pain. 

Arcadian  summer  soft  and  light, 

A  cooling  breeze,  and  skies  most  bright; 

Then  little  birds  would  envy  me, 

So  full  of  joy  my  Ufe  would  be. 


In  careless  ease  there  let  me  lie, 
The  happiest  man  beneath  the  sky, 
There  idly  scan  some  book  of  old, 
Filled  with  a  poet's  thoughts  of  gold ; 
Then  blushing  brides  would  envy  me, 
So  full  of  joy  my  life  would  be. 

Chaslbs  T.  Lusted. 


176 


Books 


BOOKS 

"VXIHEN  sorrow  sets  around  thy  wayward 
''         path, 

And  many  troubles  follow  in  her  train ; 

When  dire  mischance  it  seems  will  never 

wane, 

And  hfe  for  thee  no  sort  of  pleasure  hath ; 

When  friendship  proves  as  frail  as  any  lath, 

Snaps  in  a  trice  and  leaves  the  dull  slow 

pain — 
The  aching  heart  that  ne'er  may  hope 
again — 
And  drear  despair  seems  life's  sole  after- 
math, 
There  is  an  outlet  from  thy  dreary  creed ; 
There  is  a  pasture  on  which  thou  may'st 
feed; 
There  is  a  never-failing  friend  at  hand. 
Turn  to  thy  shelves  and  choose  a  goodly 

tome, 
A  mighty  mind  of  ancient  Greece  or  Rome, 
Perchance  a  bard  of  thy  own  native  land. 

Then  may'st  thou  leave  all  troubles  far  be- 
hind. 
And  soar  unto  the  regions  of  the  blest ; 
Then  be  thy  body,  mind  and  soul  at  rest, 
Oblivious  to  the  tempest  and  the  wind 
12  177 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


That  howls  around  the  shipwreck  of  thy 
mind. 
For,  by  the  thraldom  of  that  tome  pos- 
sessed, 
Despair  hath  lost  its  potence  to  molest, 
And  not  an  inlet  can  thy  troubles  find. 
Oh,  blessings  be  on  every  poet  head ! 
"With  wreaths  of  joy  may  each  be  gar- 
landed. 
And  happiness  forever  be  thy  meed ! 
Who  for  us  men  hath  wrought  so  great  a 

joy, 
Devoid  of  all  adulterate  alloy — 
A  genuine  soil  whereon  the  soul  may  feed. 
Cyeil  M.  Dkew.   . 


178 


Books 


BOOKS 

T  TNDYTNG  works  of  dying  men 
Product  of  paper,  ink  and  pen, 

And  human  brain ; 
Imperishable  as  the  mind, 
Sight-giving  to  the  inly  blind, 
Nuggets  of  gold  in  them  we  find, 

And  priceless  grain — 

Grain  that  makes  food  to  feed  the  soul, 
Gives  strength  and  stimulates  the  whole. 

Builds  up  the  man 
And  fits  him  for  a  higher  life, 
Beyond  the  range  of  time  and  strife, 
Where  mind  prevails  and  thought  is  rife, 

Eternal  plan. 

We  reverence  them— these  things  of  might, 
Which  give  us  comfort,  joy,  delight, 

Instruct  and  bless ; 
Companions  of  our  quiet  hours, 
Silent  yet  wielding  awful  powers. 
Stronger  than  forts  or  frowning  towers. 

Yet  ne'er  oppress. 


179 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


With  men  we  quarrel  and  contend, 
But  books  we  never  can  offend 

With  angry  word ; 
Calm,  sober,  stately  dignity, 
As  though  sparks  of  divinity, 
With  mind  in  true  affinity, 

Strongly  accord. 

In  books  departed  men  do  live. 
And  speak  and  act  and  ever  give 

Thoughts  for  all  time ; 
No  weariness  they  ever  know, 
Like  streams  that  yield  a  constant  flow, 
Like  trees  of  knowledge  always  grow. 

Fruits  most  sublime. 

George  W.  ARMSiEONa. 


180 


In  an  Old  Library 


IN  AN  OLD  LIBRARY 

•THERE  in  the  dusk  of  this  dim-windowed 

^         hall 

The  weary  minds  of  generations  rest ; 

Poor  prisoner  ghosts,  by  sad  neglect  op- 
pressed, 

In  dismal  companies  along  the  wall ; 

Long  phantom  lines  of  poets  and  of  seers, 

Their  songs  grown  cold,  their  raptures 
heeded  not 

And  all  their  wisdom  wearily  begot, 

Turned  fooUsh  through  forgotten  years. 

Fair  summers  that  will  never  come  again, 
They  wasted  out  with  trouble  prodigal. 
And  springs  and  falls  and  winters  beautiful, 
That  here  might  rest  in  store  for  careless 

men 
The  hoarded  ignorance  of  time,    Alas, 
What  perishable  fruit  their  labors  bore ; 
The  hungry  crowds  go  roaring  by  their  door, 
Nor  wait  one  moment  as  they  pass. 

Across  their  prison-house  the  creeping  sun 
Dials  the  endless  days  upon  the  floor ; 
The  crafty  spider  binds  them  o'er  and  o'er 
With  fetters  that  may  never  be  undone. 

181 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Oh,  for  the  days  they  lost  in  labor  vain. 

Here  in  the  dusk  all  molder  silently, 

Save  when  across  the  panes  some  prisoner 

bee 
Raves  for  his  open  fields  again. 

Raves  for  the  sky,  the  meadows  and  the 
trees ; 

Wild  with  the  dark,  frantic  with  mad  dis- 
trust 

Of  this  dim  place  of  weariness  and  dust. 

Round  him  the  great  of  out-spent  centuries 

In  gaunt  procession  listen  silently — 

JDead  oracles  no  questioner  comes  to  seek ; 

Their  words,  which  woke  the  world,  now 
grown  more  weak 

Than  the  shrill  droning  of  a  frightened  bee. 
Gkik  Turnkk. 


182 


An  Invocation  in  a  Library 


AN  INVOCATION  IN  A  LIBRARY 

Q  BROTHERHOOD,  with  bay-crowned 
brows  undaunted, 
Who  passed  serene  along  our  crowded 
ways, 
Speak  with  us  still !    For  we,  like  Saul,  are 
haunted : 
Harp  sullen  spirits  from  these  later  days  I 

Whate'er  high  hope  ye  had  for  man,  your 
brother. 
Breathe  it,  nor  leave  him  like  a  prisoned 
slave 
To  stare  through  bars  upon  a  sight  no  other 
Than    clouded   skies  that  lighten  on  a 
grave. 

In  these  still  alcoves  give  us  gentle  meeting. 
From  dusky  shelves  kind  arms  about  us 
fold; 
Till  the  New  Age  shall  feel  her  chilled  heart 
beating 
Bestfully  on  the  warm  heart  of  the  Old. 


183 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Till  we  shall  hear  your  voices  mild  and  win- 
ning 
Steal  through  our  doubt  and  discord  as 
outswells 
At  fiercest  noon,  above  a  city's  dinning, 
The  chiming  music  of  cathedral  bells ! 

Music  that  lifts  the  thought  from  trodden 
places 
And  coarse  confusion  that  around  us  lie, 
Up  to  the  calm  of  high  cloud-silvered  spaces 
"Where  the  tall  spire  points  through  the 
soundless  sky. 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 


184 


Friends  in  Solitude 


FRIENDS  m  SOLITUDE 

Jl/I  Y  books,  my  friends  in  solitude, 

Which  never  mar  my  quietude ; 
Whose  silent  voices  gently  speak 
In  the  great  thoughts  I  love  to  seek. 

Such  company  I  ever  find 
A  help  to  stimulate  my  mind. 
And  stir  the  feehngs  of  my  heart, 
Which  rise  above  all  formal  art. 

I  love  to  think  of  them  away, 
When  I  from  home  may  go  to  stay ; 
And  hope  again  their  face  to  see, 
Ere  many  days  shall  come  and  flee. 

They  never,  in  a  fitful  mood, 
Do  speak  or  act  in  way  that's  rude ; 
But  always  in  a  pleasant  style. 
They  seem  to  greet  me  with  a  smile. 

While  things  around  me  often  change. 
And  take  a  course  that  is  quite  strange, 
These  friends  are  always  of  one  mind. 
And  show  a  spirit  mild  and  kind. 


186 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


In  books  are  treasures  more  than  gold, 
Great  thoughts  come  down  from  minds  of 

old, 
Embalmed  in  forms  that  ever  live, 
And  never  cease  their  life  to  give. 

How  grand  the  monuments  of  mind ! 
Which  leave  all  others  far  behind ; 
And  shine  vrith  light  that  is  sublime, 
Lighthouses  on  the  coasts  of  time. 

John  Moore. 


A  BOOK  BY  THE  BROOK 

t^  IVE  me  a  nook  and  a  book, 

^■"^   And  let  the  proud  world  spin  round ; 

Let  it  scramble  by  hook  or  by  crook 

For  wealth  or  a  name  with  a  sound. 
You  are  welcome  to  amble  your  ways, 

Aspirers  to  place  or  to  glory ; 
May  big  bells  jangle  your  praise, 
And  golden  pens  blazon  your  story ; 
For  me,  let  me  dwell  in  my  nook, 
Here  by  the  curve  of  this  brook. 
That  croons  to  the  tune  of  my  book. 
Whose  melody  wafts  me  forever 
On  the  waves  of  an  unseen  river. 

James  Freeman  CiiARKB. 

186 


A  Fogy 


A  FOGY 

(~\F  course  I  keep  my  Shakespeare  near, 

and  dote  on  Milton,  too ; 
Preserve  my  Homer  from  the  dust,  and 

Dante  bright  and  new. 
For   some  one  might  inquire,  you  know, 

about  these  poets  old. 
Who  hid  in  mountain-deeps  of  words  their 

scattered  thoughts  of  gold. 

But  when  I'm  fain  to  spend  awhile  away 

from  Traffic's  mart, 
Like  Longfellow  then  I  seek  some  bard 

"whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart." 
The  "Old  Arm  Chair"  by  Eliza  Cook,  or 

Lowell's  "First  Snow  Fall," 
Or  "Highland  Mary"  by  Bob  Bums — these 

please  me  more  than  all. 

They  seem  to  nurture  sympathy,  and  light- 
en all  my  dole, 

And  wash  the  dust  of  worldliness  from  oS 
the  burdened  soul. 

0  yes,  I  love  my  Shakespeare  much,  and 

Milton's  lines,  indeed — 

1  keep  the  masters  but  to  praise,  the  others 

but  to  read ! 

Will  T.  Hale. 

187 


■> 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


TO  HIS  BOOK 

A    PAEEWELL    ADDRESS    ON    ITS    PUBLICATION. 

"  Vertumnum  Janumque,  liber,  spectare  videris." 

CO  then,  to  Janus  and  Vertumnus,  Book  I 
Thou  eeem'st  at  length  to  throw  a  wist- 
ful look ; 

Where  tricked  and  varnished  by  the  Sosian 
hand, 

High  on   the  venal  shelf  thou  long'st  to 
stand. 

Yes,  yes — I  see,  thy  shy  reserve  is  fled; 

Averse  to  locks  and  bolts  thou  would'st  be 
read: 

And,  slighting  all  my  counsel,  bid'st  adieu 

To  private  ears,  to  court  the  public  view. 
Well,  have  thy  will, — and  go  thy  way  I  but 
learn. 

When  once  dismissed,  thou  never  can'st  re- 
turn, 

"Fool  that  I  was! "  methinks  I  hear  thee 
cry. 

When  some  fastidious  critic  flings  thee  by. 

Or  some  admirer  satiate  of  thy  charms 

Thrusts  thee  all  torn  and  rumpled  from  his 
arms. 

But,  if  I  read  thy  destinies  aright 

Nor  mists  of  self-love  dim  the  prophet's 
eight, 

188 


To  His  Book 


While  novelty  and  youth's  attractive  bloom 
Endure,  thou  shalt  be  much  caressed  at 

Eome. 
But,  when   the  vulgar   touch  thy  beauty 

soils, 
The  silent  moth  shall  batten  on  thy  spoils ; 
Or  to  far  Afric's  coast  thou  shalt  be  sent 
Or  Spain,  fast  bound  in  odious  banishment. 
Then  he,  whose  warning  voice  thou  would'st 

not  hear. 
Shall  slight  thy  sufferings  and  deride  thy 

fear, — 
Like  him  who  once,  his  restive  ass  to  mock, 
Threw  up  the  reins  and  drove  him  o'er  the 

rock. 
Nor  is  this  all :— For,  when  the  prime  ia  past, 
Old-age  with  lisping  accents  shall  at  last 
Surprise  thee  teaching  school-boys  to  repeat 
Their  daily  task  in  every  dirty  street. 

Thou  then,  what  time  the  sun's  intense  ray 
Summons    around   thee  many  a  listener, 

say- 
That,  tho'  a  freeman's  son,  in  fortune's  spite 
I  imped  my  pinions  for  a  prouder  flight. 
And  soared  aloof.    Thus,  what  I  lack  in 

birth. 
To  make  amends,  shall  swell  the  score  of 

worth. 


189 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Say  too  that  by  the  great — by  men  con- 
fessed 
Supreme  in  peace  and  war — I  was  caressed. 
Add  that  I  loved  to  bask  in  summer  skies, 
Was  grey  betimes,  in  stature  under  size, 
And  quick  to  wrath ;  yet  that  my  bitterest 

rage 
Ne'er  rankled.    Tell  them,  if  they  ask  my 

age, 
Lollius  and  Lepidus  the  state  controlled 
When   four  and  forty  suns  had  o'er  me 

rolled. 
Ret.  Caijon  Howes'  translation  op  Hor- 
ace's Epistles. 


190 


In  a  Book  of  Old  Plays 


IN  A  BOOK  OF  OLD  PLAYS 

AT  Cato's  Head  in  Eussell  Street 

These  leaves  she  sat  a-stitching ; 
I  fancy  she  was  trim  and  neat, 
Blue-eyed  and  quite  bewitching. 

Before  her  on  the  street  below, 

All  powder,  ruffs  and  laces, 
There  strutted  idle  London  beaux 

To  ogle  pretty  faces ; 

While,  filling  many  a  Sedan  chair 
With  monstrous  hoop  and  feather. 

In  paint  and  powder  London's  fair 
Went  trooping  past  together. 

Swift,  Addison  and  Pope,  mayhap 
They  sauntered  slowly  past  her. 

Or  printer's  boy,  with  gown  and  cap 
For  Steele,  went  trotting  faster. 

For  beau  nor  wit  had  she  a  look ; 

Nor  lord  nor  lady  minding. 
She  bent  her  head  above  this  book, 

Attentive  to  her  binding. 

And  one  stray  thread  of  golden  hair, 
Caught  on  her  nimble  fingers, 

Was  stitched  within  this  volume,  where 
Until  to-day  it  Ungers. 
191 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Past  and  forgotten,  beaux  and  fair, 
Wigs,  powder,  all  outdated; 

A  queer  antique,  the  Sedan  chair, 
Pope,  stiff  and  antiquated. 

Yet  as  I  turn  these  odd,  old  plays, 
This  single  stray  lock  finding, 

I'm  back  in  those  forgotten  days 
And  watch  her  at  her  binding. 

Walter  Learned. 


OLD  BOOKS 

A  THRESHER  prime  is  Father  Timel 

When  harvest  loads  his  wain, 
He  beats  the  hollow  husks  aside 
And  hoards  the  golden  grain. 

A  winnower  is  Father  Time ! 

The  chaff  he  blows  away ; 
The  sweetest  seed  he  treasures  up 

For  many  a  year  and  day. 

Oh,  very  wise  is  Father  Time! 

His  flail  is  tried  and  true ; 
I  love  the  garnered  pile  of  books 

He's  winnowed  through  and  through. 


192 


Johnny,  Get  Your  Glossary 


JOHNNY,  GET  YOUR  GLOSSARY 

■\3l/HAT  makes  the  Scotsman's  story-buiks, 
That  breathe  the  heather,  whins  and 
stocks, 
Sae  welcome  at  your  ingle-neuks? 

I  dinna  ken. 
And  yet  they're  playing  drakes  and  dukes 
Wi'  Englishmen. 

I  needna  say  it's  a'  the  craze 

To  daunder  o'er  Drumtochty's  braes 

(Whaur  puir  auld  Domsie  spent  his  days 

In  teachin'  sums) 
And  ilka  body's  bound  to  praise 

The  toon  o'  Thrums. 

Aince  maids  (at  thirty-ane  and  six) 
Had  names  hke  Rose  and  Beatrix ; 
But  Baubie,  Kirsty,  Jean,  noo  licks 

Your  Flo  or  Di. 
What  eeee  are  they  for  biggin'  ricks 

Or  milkin'  kye? 

Your  heroes'  names  hae  changed,  it  seems, 
Frae  Aubrey,  Guy,  or  John-a-Dreams, 
To  An'ra,  Dauvit,  Jock,  or  Jeems, 

Or  Rab,  or  Tam — 
Douce  lads,  that  kenna  o'  the  stream 

0'  Thames  or  Cam. 
13  193 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


I  sometimes  think  a  Lowlan'  cMel 
Maun  gey  an'  aften  come  to  feel 
Hoo  hard  it  is  to  read  a  reel 

O'  gweed  braid  Scots. 
He'd  hae  to  gang  again  to  skweel 

To  louse  the  knots. 

For  instance,  he  maun  learn,  puir  stock, 

That  barter  signifies  to  trock ; 

And  that  he  maunna  yoke,  but  yock 

A  horse  or  meer. 
He'll  hae  to  ca'  a  timepiece  knock ; 

For  ask,  say  spier. 

It  needs  a  lad  that  isna  blate 

To  read  sic  tales  and  gang  the  gate 

O'  fouk  that  maun  be  up  to  date. 

If  nae  a  Scot, 
He'll  hae  to  be,  at  ony  rate, 

A  polyglot. 

The  Sketch. 


104 


Copy  of  the  "Compleat  Angler" 


FOR  A  COPY  OF  "THE  COMPLEAT 
ANGLER." 

"Z,e  r6ve  de  la  vie  champStre  a  4tS  de  tout 
temps  Vid6al  dcs  villes.''^ — George  Sand. 

I  CARE  not  much  how  men  prefer 

To  dress  your  Chub  or  Chavender; — 
I  care  no  whit  for  Une  or  hook, 
But  still  I  love  old  Izaak's  book, 
Wherein  a  man  may  read  at  ease 
Of  "gandergrass"  and  "culverkeys," 
Or  with  half -pitying  wonder,  note 
What  Topsell,  what  Du  Bartas  wrote, 
Or  list  the  song,  by  Maudlin  sung, 
That  Marlowe  made  when  he  was  young : — 
These  things,  in  truth,  delight  me  more 
Than  all  old  Izaak's  angling  lore. 

These  were  his  Secret.    What  care  I 
How  men  construct  the  Hawthorn-fly, 
Who  could  as  soon  make  Syllabub 
As  catch  your  Chavender  or  Chub; 
And  might  not,  in  ten  years,  arrive 
At  baiting  hooks  with  frogs,  alive ! — 
But  still  I  love  old  Izaak's  page. 
Old  Izaak's  simple  Gfolden  Age, 
Where  blackbirds  flute  from  ev'ry  bough, 
Where  lasses  "milk  the  sand-red  cow," 
195 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Where  lads  are  "sturdy  football  swains,'^ 

And  nought  but  soft  "May-butter"  rains; 

Where  you  may  breathe  untainted  air 

Either  at  Hodsden  or  at  Ware; 

And  sing,  or  slumber,  or  look  wise 

Till  Phcebtis  sink  adown  the  skies, 

Then,  laying  rod  and  tackle  by. 

Choose  out  some  "cleanly  Alehouse"  nigh, 

With  ballads  "stuck  about  the  wall," 

Of  Joan  of  France  or  English  Mall — 

With  sheets  that  smell  of  lavender — 

There  eat  your  Chub  (or  Chavender}, 

And  keep  old  Izaak's  honest  laws 

For  "Mirth  that  no  repenting  draws" — 

To  wit,  a  friendly  stave  or  so. 

That  goes  to  Heigh-trolollie-loe, 

Or  more  to  make  the  ale-can  pass, 

A  hunting  song  of  William  Basse — 

Then  talk  of  fish,  and  fishy  diet, 

And  dream  you  "Study  to  be  quiet." 

Austin  Dobson. 
"Literature." 
—Harper  &  Brothers. 


196 


The  Bookstall 


THE  BOOKSTALL 

TT  stands  in  a  winding  street, 
A  quiet  and  restful  nook, 

Apart  from  the  endless  beat 
Of  the  noisy  heart  of  Trade ; 
There's  never  spot  more  cool 
Of  a  hot  midsummer  day 
By  the  brink  of  a  forest  pool, 
Or  the  bank  of  a  crystal  brook 
In  the  maples'  breezy  shade, 
Than  the  bookstall  old  and  gray. 

Here  are  precious  gems  of  thought 

That  were  quarried  long  ago, 
Some  in  vellum  bound,  and  wrought 
With  letters  and  lines  of  gold ; 

Here  are  curious  rows  of  "  calf," 

And  perchance  an  Elzevir ; 

Here  are  countless  "  mos  "  of  chaff, 

And  a  parchment  folio, 

Like  leaves  that  are  cracked  with  cold, 

All  puckered  and  brown  and  sere. 

In  every  age  and  clime 

Live  the  monarchs  of  the  brain ; 
And  the  lords  of  prose  and  rhyme, 

Years  after  the  long  last  sleep 
197 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Has  come  to  the  kings  of  earth 
And  their  names  have  passed  away, 
Rule  on  through  death  and  birth : 
And  the  thrones  of  their  domain 
Are  found  where  the  shades  are  deep, 
In  the  bookstall  old  and  gray. 

Clinton  Scollard. 


LINES  TO  A  BOOK  BORROWER 

[These  lines  are  after  Tennyson— so  was  the  bor- 
rower.] 

A  SK  me  no  more;  the  moon  may  draw 

the  sea, 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven,  and  you 

tome. 
But  0  too  fond !  when  I  have  answered  thee, 
Ask  me  no  more ! 

Ask  me  no  more ;  I  once  did  lend  thee  books 
And  what  on  earth's  become  of  them,  od- 

zooks ! 

_  No  man  doth  wot ; 

Ask  me  no  more ! 

Ask  me  no  more ;  the  moon  may  draw  the 

sea. 
But  you  can  draw  no  more  books  out  of  me  I 

F.  C. 
198 


Shake,  Mulleaiy  and  Go-ethe 


SHAKE.  MULLEARY  AND  GO-ETHE 


T  HAVE  a  bookcase,  which  is  what 
Many  much  better  men  have  not. 
There  are  no  books  inside,  for  books, 
I  am  afraid,  might  spoil  its  looks. 
But  I've  three  busts,  all  second-hand, 
Upon  the  top.    You  understand 
I  could  not  put  them  underneath — 
Shake,  MuUeary  and  Go-ethe. 

II 
Shake  was  a  dramatist  of  note ; 
He  lived  by  writing  things  to  quote. 
He  long  ago  put  on  his  shroud : 
Some  of  his  works  are  rather  loud. 
His  bald-spot's  dusty,  I  suppose, 
I  know  there's  dust  upon  his  nose. 
I'll  have  to  give  each  nose  a  sheath — 
Shake,  MuDeary  and  Go-ethe. 

Ill 
Mulleary's  line  was  quite  the  same ; 
He  has  more  hair,  but  far  less  fame. 
I  would  not  from  that  fame  retrench- 
But  he  is  foreign,  being  French. 

199 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Yet  high  his  haughty  head  he  heaves, 
The  only  one  done  up  in  leaves. 
They're  rather  limited  on  wreath — 
Shake,  Mulleary  and  Go-ethe. 


Go-ethe  vrrote  in  the  German  tongue : 
He  must  have  learned  it  very  young. 
His  nose  is  quite  a  butt  for  scoff, 
Although  an  inch  of  it  is  off. 
He  did  quite  nicely  for  the  Dutch ; 
But  here  he  doesn't  count  for  much. 
They  all  are  off  their  native  heath — 
Shake,  Mulleary  and  Go-ethe. 

V 

They  sit  there,  on  their  chests,  as  bland 
As  if  they  were  not  second-hand. 
I  do  not  know  of  what  they  think, 
Nor  why  they  never  frown  or  wink. 
But  why  from  smiling  they  refrain 
I  think  I  clearly  can  explain : 
They  none  of  them  could  show  much  teeth- 
Shake,  Mulleary  and  Go-ethe. 

H.  C.  BUNNEB. 


200 


The  Bibliomaniac's  Bride 


THE  BIBLIOMANIAC'S  BRIDE 


T 


'HE  women-folk  are  like  to  books- 
Most  pleasing  to  the  eye, 
Whereon  if  anybody  looks 
He  feels  disposed  to  buy. 


I  hear  that  many  are  for  sale — 

Those  that  record  no  dates, 
And  each  editions  as  regale 

The  view  with  colored  plates. 

Of  every  quality  and  grade 

And  size  they  may  be  found- 
Quite  often  beautifully  made, 
As  often  poorly  bound. 

Now,  as  for  me,  had  I  my  choice, 

I'd  choose  no  folios  tall, 
But  some  octavo  to  rejoice 

My  sight  and  heart  withal. 

As  plump  and  podgy  as  a  snipe- 
Well  worth  her  weight  in  gold. 

Of  honest,  clean,conspicuous  type, 
And  just  the  size  to  hold ! 

With  such  a  volume  for  my  wife, 
How  should  I  keep  and  con ; 

How  like  a  dream  should  speed  my  Ufa 
Unto  its  colophon  I 
201 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Her  frontispiece  should  be  more  fair 

Than  any  colored  plate ; 
Blooming  with  health,  she  would  not  care 

To  extra-illustrate. 

And  in  her  pages  there  should  be 
A  wealth  of  prose  and  verse, 

With  now  and  then  a  jew  d* esprit — 
But  nothing  ever  worse ! 

Prose  for  me  when  I  wished  for  prose. 
Verse,  when  to  verse  inclined — 

For  ever  bringing  sweet  repose 
To  body,  heart  and  mind. 

Oh,  I  should  bind  this  priceless  prize 

In  bindings  full  and  fine, 
And  keep  her  where  no  human  eyes 

Should  see  her  charms,  but  mine ! 

With  such  a  fair  unique  as  this 

What  happiness  abounds ! 
Who — who  could  paint  my  rapturous  bliss, 

My  joy  unknown  to  Lowndes ! 

Eugene  Field. 

"A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse." 
—Charles  Scribuer's  Sous. 


202 


The  Caravansary 


THE  CARAVANSARY 

T  KEEP  a  caravansary, 

And,  be  it  night  or  day, 
I  entertain  such  travelers 
As  chance  to  come  my  way. 

Haflz,  maybe,  or  Sadi, 

Who  singing  songs  divine, 
Discovered  heaven  in  taverns, 

And  holiness  in  wine ! 

Or  Antar  and  his  Arabs, 

From  burning  sands  afar, 
So  faint  in  love's  sweet  trances, 

So  resolute  in  war ! 

The  Brahmin  from  the  Ganges, 

The  Tartar,  Turcoman, — 
Savage  hordes,  with  spears  and  swords, 

Who  rode  with  Genghis  Khan ! 

Or  mummies  from  old  Egypt, 
With  priestly,  kingly  trsad, 

Who,  in  their  cerecloths,  mutter 
The  Ritual  of  the  Dead ! 

Who  keeps  a  caravansary 
Knows  neither  friend  nor  foe  ; 

His  doors  stand  wide  on  every  side 
For  all  to  come  and  go. 
203 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


The  Koran,  or  the  Bible, 

Or  Veda, — which  is  best? 
The  wise  host  asks  no  questions, 

But  entertains  his  guest ! 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

A  MONO  my  books — what  rest  is  there 
From  wasting  woes !  what  balm  for  care ! 
If  ills  appall  or  clouds  hung  low. 
And  drooping  dim  the  fleeting  show; 
I  revel  still  in  vision's  race. 
At  will  I  breathe  the  classic  air, 
The  wanderings  of  Ulysses  share; 
Or  see  the  plume  of  Bayard  flow — 
Among  my  books. 

Whatever  face  the  world  may  wear — 
If  Lilian  has  no  smile  to  spare. 
For  others  let  her  beauty  blow, 
Such  favors  I  can  well  forego ; 
Perchance  forget  the  frowning  fair 
Among  my  books. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 


804 


A  Little  Bookworm 


A  LITTLE  BOOKWORM 

■MOT  a  noise  throughout  our  dwelling 
Of  the  urchin's  presence  telling : 
Did  he  sleep? 
Where  had  flown  the  dimpled  laughter 
Wont  to  ring  from  floor  to  rafter? 
What  I  saw,  a  moment  after, 
Made  flesh  creep  I 

He  had  rent  my  Lamb  in  pieces, 
There  was  nothing  but  the  fleeces, 

And  Home  Tooke 
He  had  taken  in  a  twinkle : 
Young  looked  old,  with  many  a  wrinkl*; 
Other  poets,  quite  a  sprinkle, 

Strewed  each  nook. 

My  new  Gay  was  sad,  Hood  tattered, 
And  my  Bacon  sliced  and  scattered ; 

Spoiled  my  Locke : 
Pollock's  Course  of  Time  had  run ; 
Browning  was  indeed  quite  done ; 
Vandal  fists  had  just  begun 

Knox  to  knock. 


,105 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


The  Decline  and  Fall  of  Gibbon 
Swiftly  came ;  to  many  a  ribbon 

It  was  rent. 
Steele  was  twisted ;  there  was  pillage 
In  my  fair  Deserted  Village ; 
Beaconsfield  was  past  all  tillage ; 

Hook  was  bent. 

Would  that  I  had  caught  the  rover, 
Ere  the  cyclone  had  blown  over ! 

Fateful  billow ! 
There  he  lies !  could  I  be  rude 
On  such  slumber  to  intrude? 
Zimmerman  on  Solitude : 

That's  his  pillow ! 

Monroe  H.  Rosenpeld. 


Nulla  Retrorsum 


NULLA  RETRORSUM 

T  JMBRELLAS,  strayed  from  clubland'a 
^       halls, 

Come  back,  though  not  in  silk ; 
The  man  who  goeth  out  to  balls 

Returneth  with  the  milk. 
The  swallows  come  again  with  spring 

That  flit  when  summer's  spent; 
But  all  the  seasons  fail  to  bring 

Me  back  the  books  I  lent. 

My  senses  strayed  when  Celia  smiled, 

Because  her  eyes  were  black ; 
But  now,  no  more  by  love  beguiled, 

I've  got  them  safely  back. 
My  heart  I  gave  returned  to  me 

As  lightly  as  it  went ; 
E'en  hopes  long  lost  once  more  I  see, 

But  not  the  books  I  lent. 

All  things  return ;  in  twilight  gray 

Day  dies,  to  dawn  anew; 
The  beef  that's  sent  below  to-day 

Will  make  to-morrow's  stew ; 
The  bill  collector  cometh  back 

"With  covetous  intent, 
All  things  return — except,  alack  1 

The  books  that  I  have  lent. 
207 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


They  stood  in  "  Russia,"  side  by  side, 

They  filled  one  rosewood  shelf ; 
They're  now  belonging,  far  and  wide, 

To  any  but  myself. 
O !  take  my  word,  this  world  of  pain 

Will  fizzle  out  and  end 
Before  you'll  ever  see  again 

The  books — the  books  you  lend. 

Clipb. 


208 


Library  of  a  Gentleman  Deceased 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 
DECEASED 

C  OME  people  dote  on  spooks, 

Postage  stamps,  or  flies  and  hooks. 
While  to  others  old  engravings  are  a  feast; 

But  I  much  prefer  the  tale 

Of  "A  library  for  sale, 
Collected  by  a  gentleman  deceased." 

You  may  never  know  his  name. 

Or  the  limits  of  his  fame. 
He  might  have  been  a  poet  or  a  priest, 

But  you  know  his  little  ways 

From  the  sermons  or  the  plays 
Collected  by  the  gentleman  deceased.  '' 

What  phrases  can  compare 

With  the  Scarce  or  Very  Rare, 
What  sorrow  with  the  Foxed,  or  Soiled,  or 
Creased, 

As  you  read  the  auction  mems. 

On  the  literary  gems 
Collected  by  the  gentleman  deceased? 

If  the  pages  aren't  cut, 

If  they're  guiltless  of  a  smut. 
You  think  he  never  read  them  in  the  least; 

While  occasional  dog's-ears, 

Or  some  annotation  smears. 
Say  something  for  the  gentleman  deceassd. 

14  209 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


It  is  clear,  it  seems  to  me, 

Or,  at  least,  it  ought  to  be, 
That  a  history  may  readily  be  pieced 

From  the  books  of  divers  kinds 

(Representing  many  minds) 
Collected  by  the  gentleman  deceased. 

The  Sketch. 


THE  BOOK 

r^  ALLERY  of  sacred  pictures  manifold, 
A  minster  rich  in  holy  effigies, 
And  bearing  on  entablature  and  frieze 
The  hieroglyphic  oracles  of  old. 
Along  its  transept  aureoled  martyrs  sit ; 
And  the  low  chancel  side-lights  half 

acquaint 
The  eye  with  shrines  of  prophet,  bard, 
and  saint. 
Their  age-dimmed  tablets  traced  in  doubt- 
ful writ ! 
But  only  when  on  form  and  word  obscure 
Falls  from  above  the  white  supernal  light 
"We  read  the  mystic  characters  aright, 
And  life  informs  the  silent  portraiture, 
Until  we  pause  at  last,  awe-held,  before 
The  One  ineffable  Face,  love,  wonder,  and 
adore. 

John  Grebnlkaf  Whittier. 
210 


My  Harem 


MY  HAREM 

A  HAREM  of  beauties  I  boast — 

Most  excellent  dutiful  wives. 

Each  fancies  she  pleases  me  most, 

Nor  disputes  with  her  sister,  nor  strives. 
They  are  learned,  and  witty,  and  wise ; 

On  my  good  and  my  pleasure  they  dote ; 
But  they  never  break  family  ties 

To  wrangle  in  public  or  vote. 

At  a  word  their  soft  breasts  they  unfold. 

And  yield  to  my  spirit's  embrace ; 
Yet,  when  o'er  her  charms  I  grow  cold, 

Contented  each  sinks  to  her  place. 
They  fire  me,  they  melt  me,  they  find 

Where  the  fountains  of  feeling  are  hid, 
And  the  shackles  of  passion  unbind ; 

Yet  they  hush  at  the  droop  of  my  lid. 

They  tell  me  the  wonderful  tales 

Of  Persia  and  Araby  blest ; 
One  speaks  of  Europe's  fair  vales. 

And  one  of  the  virginal  "West. 
Hot  love-talks  one  brings  from  the  South, 

Drunk  in  with  the  Sun's  ardent  beams; 
And  folk-lore  one  has  in  her  mouth, 

From  the  Northland's  magnificent  dreams. 
211 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Every  week  a  new,  beautiful  form 

In  my  harem's  retreat  I  enfold. 
To  the  new  love  I'm  never  less  warm, 

Towards  the  old  love  I  never  grow  cold, 
Yet  censure  I  scorn  and  defy. 

And  in  Virtue's  calm  eyes  dare  to  look; 
No  Mormon  nor  Turkman  am  I — 

Each  beauty  I  boast  is  a  book. 

Jeremiah  Mahoney. 


WITH  A  COPY  OF  HERRICK 

CRESH  with  all  airs  of  woodland  brooki 

And  scents  of  showers, 
Take  to  your  haunt  of  holy  books 
This  saint  of  flowers. 

When  meadows  bum  with  budding  May, 

And  heaven  is  blue, 
Before  his  shrine  our  prayers  we  say, — 

Saint  Robin  true. 

Love  crowned  with  thorns  is  on  hia  staft,- 

Thoms  of  sweet  briar; 
His  benediction  is  a  laugh, 

Birds  are  his  choir. 

His  sacred  robe  of  white  and  red 

Unction  distils ; 
He  hath  a  nimbus  round  his  head 
Of  dafEodUi. 

Edmund  Gossb. 
212 


Too  Many  Books 


TOO  MANY  BOOKS 

T  "WOULD  that  we  were  only  readers  now, 
And  wrote  no  more,  or  in.rare  hearts  of 
soul 
Sweated  out  thoughts  when  o'erburdened 
brow 

Was  powerless  to  control. 

Then  would  all  future  books  be  small  and 
few. 
And  freed  of  dross,  the  soul's  refined  gold ; 
Bo  should  we  have  a  chance  to  read  the 
new, 

Yet  not  forego  the  old. 

But  as  it  is.  Lord  help  us,  in  this  flood 
Of  daily  papers,  books  and  magazines! 
We  scramble  blind,  as  reptiles  in  the  mud» 
And  know  not  what  it  means. 

Is  it  the  myriad  spawn  of  vagrant  tides, 
Whose  growth  overwhelm  both  sea  and 
shore, 
Yet  often  necessary  loss,  provides 
BuflBcient  and  no  more? 


21S 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


Is  it  the  broadcast  sowing  of  the  seeds, 
And  from  the  stones  the  thorns  and  fer- 
tile soil, 
Only  enough  to  serve   the  world's  great 
needs 

Rewards  the  sower's  toil? 

Is  it  all  needed  for  the  varied  winds? 
Gives  not  the  teeming  press  a  book  too 
much — 
Not  one  but  in  its  dense  neglect  shall  find 
Some  needful  heart  to  touch? 

Ah,  who  can  say  that  even  this  blade  of 
grass 
No  mission  has — superfluous  as  it  looks? 
Then  wherefore  feel  oppressed  and   cry, 
Alas, 

There  are  too  many  books ! 

EOBBRT  LeIGHTON. 


214 


A  Little  Book 


A  LITTLE  BOOK 

A  LITTLE  book  with  here  and  there  a  leaf 

Turned  at  some  tender  passage;  how 

it  seems 

To  speak  to  me — to  fill  my  soul  with 

dreams 

Sweet  as  first  love,  and  beautiful  though 

brief! 
Here  was  her  glory ;  and  on  this  page  her 
grief — 
For  tears  have  stained  it;  here  the  sun- 
light streams, 
And  there  the  stars  withheld  from  her 
their  beams 
And  sorrow  sought  her  white  soul  like  a 

thief  1 
And  here  her  name,  and  as  I  breathe  the 
sweet, 
Soft  syllables,  a  presence  in  the  room 
Sheds  a  rare  radiance ;  but  I  may  not 
look: 
The  yellowed  leaves  are  fluttering  at  my 
feet; 
The  light  is  gone,  and  I — lost  in   the 
gloom. 
Weep  like  a  woman  o'er  this  little  book. 

Frank  L.  Stanton. 
"Songs  of  the  Soil." 
—B.  Appleton  &  Ck>. 

215 


Book  Lovers'  Verse 


DEDICATION  TO  CORNELIUS  NEPOS 

IVyi  Y  little  volume  is  complete, 

With  all  the  care  and  polish  neat 

That  makes  it  fair  to  see : 
To  whom  shall  I  then— to  whose  praise— 
Inscribe  my  lively,  graceful  lays? — 

Cornelius,  friend,  to  thee. 
Thou  only  of  the  Italian  race 
Hast  dared  in  three  small  books  to  trace 

All  time's  remotest  flight : 
0  Jove,  how  labored,  learned,  and  wise ! 
Yet  still  thou  ne'er  would'st  quite  despise 

The  trifles  that  I  write. 
Then  take  the  book  I  now  address, 
Though  small  its  size,  its  merit  less, 

'Tis  all  thy  friend  can  give ; 
And  let  me,  guardian  Muse,  implore 
That  when  at  least  one  age  is  o'er. 

This  volume  yet  may  live. 

Catuhus. 


810 


Envoy 


ENVOY 

/^  0,  little  book,  and  -wish  to  all 

^^    Flowers  in  the  garden,  meat  in 

the  hall, 

A  bin  of  wine,  a  spice  of  wit, 

A  house  with  lawns  enclosing  it, 

A  living  river  by  the  door, 

A  nightingale  in  the  sycamore! 

Egbert  Louis  Stevenson. 

"Poems  and  Ballads." 
—Charles  Scribner's  Sona. 


Thb  End 


217 


List  of  Authors 


AlcTiin — The  Library  of  York  Cathedral,  171 

Armstrong,  George  y^.— Books,  ITO 
Ballard,  Charles  H.—The  Book  Fve  Read 

Be/ore,  101 
BaQffs,  John  Eendrick — 

A  Legend  of  t?ie  Strand,  4i 

An  Uncut  Copy,  92 

Ih-eams,  96 

My  Lord  the  Book,  118 

Verses  in  a  Library,  173 

Barclay,  Alexander— TTie  Book  Collector,  167 

Botta,  Anne  C.  Lynch — Tfioughts  in  a  Library,  169 

Bradford,  Edgar  Greenleaf— ro  an  Old  Book,  107 

Brant,  Alfred  C.—The  Bibliophile,  21 

Brown,  Abbie  Farwell— ITie  Books  I  OugJU  to 

Read,  73 
Browne,  Irving — 

How  a  Bibliomaniac  Binds  His  Books,  141 
The  Attentive  Book  Seller,  155 
The  Bibliomaniac's  Assignment  of  Bind- 
ers, 137 
To  Caliph  Omar,  48 
The  Bookworm  Does  Not  Care  for  Xalure,  143 
Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett— ^oofcs,  98 
Bnckham,  Harriette  0.  S. — A  Book  Lover's 

Apologia,  33 

Banner,  H.  C— Shake,  MtMeary  and  Go-ethe,  199 

Bums,  Robert — 27ie  Bookworms,  52 

Burton,  Richard— Jn  a  Library,  108 

Catullus— Dedication  to  Cornelius  Nepos,  216 

219 


List  of  Authors 


Chaucer— 7%c  Scholar  and  His  Books,  65 

Chew,  Beverly— Old  Books  are  Best,  63 
Clarke,  James  Freeman — A  Book  by  the  Brook,   186 

Coleman,  Charles  Washington— 0/  My  Books,  74 

Cone,  Helen  Qv&y— Invocation  in  a  Library,  183 

Cowper,  "William— Aimless  heading,  136 
Dickinson,  Emily — 

J7i  a  Library,  69 

The  Book,  18 
Dobson,  Austin— 

For  "  The  Compleat  Angler,"  195 

My  Books,  16 

The  Bookworm,  87 
Drew,  Cyril  M. — 

A  Book  Lover's  Panegyrlo,  B9 

Books,  177 

Duer,  Caroline — From  Phyllis,  139 
Egan,  Maurice  Francis — The  Chrysalis  of  a 

Bookworm,  16 

Ellwanger,  W.  D.— TTie  Lay  of  the  Grolierite,  97 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo — A  Oood  Book,  6 
Fellows,  Caroline  Wilder-^  Volume  of  Dante,    26 

Fertiault,  F.— Triolet  to  Her  Husband,  62 
Field,  Eugene— 

Boccaccio,  40 

Marcus  Varro,  27 

The  Bibliomaniac's  Bride,  201 

These  Books  of  Mine,  49 

The  Truth  A  bout  Horace,  51 
Finleius,  Johannes  Hustonius— 27ie  Other 

"  Saijits  and  Sinners  Corner,"  127 

Fitz-Gerald,  S.  J.  Adair— iWy  Books,  72 

Foskett,  Edward— JBooA:  Brotherhood,  67 
Garnett,  Richard— i^roni  "Idylls  and EpU 

grams"  89 

Gosse,  Edmund— TTi^^  a  Copy  of  Herriok,  212 

Hale,  Will  T.—A  Fogy,  187 

Herbert,  H.  V.  S.—In  the  Library,  47 

220 


List  of  Authors 


Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell— y4<  a  Book  Store,  29 

Howe,  Eev.  Canon— To  His  Book,  188 

Jacobs,  William  R.— ^  Book  of  Poems,  163 

Jenks,  Tudor — In  a  Library,  65 

Johnson,  Willis  Fletcher— Jify  Books,  29 

Landor,  Walter  Savage — How  to  Read  Me,  66 
Lang,  Andrew — 

Burton's  Anatomy,  8 

O/  the  Book  Hunter,  108 
Lathrop,  George  Parsons— 27»«  Book  Battalion,  132 

Lavington,  Alfred — Books,  104 

Learned,  Walter— Zn  a  Book  of  Old  Plays,  191 
Le  Gallienne,  Richard — 

A  Bookman's  Complaint  of  His  Lady,  1C5 

With  Pipe  and  Book,  148 

Leighton,  Robert — Too  Many  Books,  213 

Levy,  Nathan  M.—My  Books,  71 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth^ 

My  Books,  B8 

The  Student,  88 

Lord,  Halkett— Jo  Orolierii  et  Amt-Corum,  78 

Lowell,  James  Russell—^  Fable /or  Critics,  105 

Lasted,  Charles — In  Arcady,  176 

Macy,  Arthur^— ^  Ballade  of  Montaigne,  17 

Mahoney,  Jeremiah— iify  Harem,  211 
Marriott- Watson,  Rosamund— Betty  Barnes  the 

Book  Burner,  117 

Messenger,  Robert  Hinchley — Oive  Me  the  Old,  25 

Moore,  John — Friends  in  Solitude,  185 

Moore,  Thomas — To  the  Book  of  Follies,  9i 
McCarthy,  Justin  Huntley — 

A  Ballade  of  Book-Making,  85 

My  Books,  83 

McQrath,  Harold — A  Ballade  of  Confession,  89 

Nicholson,  Meredith — Two  Greeks,  68 

Peck,  Samuel  Mintum—^ mon^r  My  Books,  204 

Quince,  Adam— ^  Neglected  Poet,  42 


221 


List  of  Authors 


Randall,  Alice  Sawtelle— 

In  a  Library,  fg, 

My  Books,  145 

Raymer,  C.  7>.~The  Bookworm's  Pltdff*,  99 

Kiley,  James  Whitcomb— 

Bookman's  Catch,  61 

Lines  fer  Isaac  Bradwell,  54 

The  Poems  Here  at  Home,  79 

To  My  Good  Master,  87 

Roberts,  Charles  G.  Tt.— Three  Good  Things,  135 

Eoscoe,  William— ^onne<  on  Parting  with  His 

Books,  170 

Eosenfeld,  Monroe  H.—A  Little  Bookworm,  205 

Sangster,  Margaret  "E.—The  Pleasant  World  of 

Books,  160 

ScoUard,  Clinton— 

In  the  Library,  88 

The  Bookstall,  197 

Shakespeare,  William — Sonnet  77,  64 

Sharp,  William— Jlf^i/  Presentation  Book  Case,       95 

Smith,  Harry  B.— Extra  Illustrating,  113 

Stanton,  Frank  L.— 

A  Little  Book,  215 

Annetla  Jones — Her  Book,  43 

Stedman,  Edmund  ClsLveace— With  a  Copy  of 

the  Iliad,  108 

Stevenson,  Robert  Liouis — 

Envoy,  217 

The  Land  of  Story  Books,  85 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry— 

Companions,  19 

The  Caravansary,  203 

Swinburne,  A.  C—On  Lamb's  Dramatic  Poets,    111 

Todhunter,  John — 

In  an  Old  Library,  153 

Heligio  Medici,  151 

Trask,  Katrina—  ir/ser  than  Books,  90 

Tupper,  Martin  Farquhai^— 0/  Beading,  120 

222 


List  of  Authors 


Turner,  Qeik—In  an  Old  Library,  181 

Venable,  W.  S.—The  Book  Auction,  176 
Watts-Dunton,  Theodore — Toast  to  Omar 

Khayydm,  156 

Wheeler,  Vost— The  Book,  110 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf— 

Tlie  Book,  210 

The  Library,  14S 
Williams,  Charles  R.— Old  JVien(f«,  Old  JBookt,  184 

Williams,  J.— My  Bookx,  128 

Wood,  William—^  llruism,  126 
Wordsworth,  William — 

Books,  140 

On  "  The  Complete  Anffler,'*  M 

I'orsonal  Talk,  77 


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